A Little Thing Called Self-Respect
by Lorelai Grayson
Summary: This is a collection of Jo/Dean prompts that have been thrown my way. A little angst, a little love, a little comedy. Some what-ifs, missing scenes, and AUs. Feel free to drop a note with suggestions or prompts you'd like to see! All ideas are welcome.
1. The Coward in Her

**AN** : Hello, lovelies! For quite a while now, I've had a few Jo/Dean prompts thrown my way and stashed in the back of my mind. Recently, they've been surfacing in my imagination, and I've decided to go ahead and just write them! Some are angst, some are crack… there should be a little of everything. I hope you enjoy! Hit me up with a suggestion or two if you've got them! More prompts are always welcome. Love always, Lorelai.

 **Disclaimer** : Any and all recognizable characters, quotes, and storylines belong to Eric Kripke and all of the phenomenal writers and producers of _Supernatural_.

 **The Coward in Her**

In. Out. Pull.

The hunt had started off easy enough. Local cow mutilations reported in Junction, Texas. Crops in the area suddenly and inexplicably dying off. Electric storms that the local weathermen had somehow failed to predict. The signs were there. Demons.

In. Out. Pull.

Jo'd spun her beat-up Jeep Wrangler as soon as she'd got the call and hightailed it down to the Lone Star State. Not even a day into the hunt, and she'd already located the demon after a single conversation with the Junction PD. It'd almost been too disappointingly easy. But she'd learned long ago not to wish for a challenge when dealing with monsters; given the chance, they always upped the ante.

In. Out. Pull.

How she'd missed the fact that her prey consisted of not one demon, but _two_ , she wasn't sure. Looking back, she may have burst in a little too confidently, but it wasn't often that she ran across two demons in the same city, let alone working together. It wasn't in their makeup. Then again, ever since the Winchesters had broken the world, more and more demons were roaming the planet. It wasn't safe to rely on her father's journal and old hunters' lore anymore, not when the world was changing so quickly, so dangerously.

In. Out. Pull.

And so, while she'd taken the first demon down without a hitch (a mouthful of holy water and a recorded exorcism always did the trick), the second one had the advantage of a surprise attack. She'd held her own, she was proud to say, but the damn thing had managed to shove her into one of the cabin's windows before screaming its way out of its host body. She could do nothing but glare as the black, smoky mass ghosted its way into the vents and out of sight. She'd let loose every swear word she'd learned in her years growing up among hunters, but the curses neither brought the demon back, nor did it numb the pain brought on by the glass jutting from her arm.

In. Out. Pull.

Luckily, the two host bodies were alive and well. A teenage brother and sister duo, as it turned out, who'd gone missing two weeks earlier in a town not two hours from Junction. At least the night hadn't ended in a total loss. She'd dropped the kids off at the Junction PD station, sworn them to secrecy, then taken off.

And here she sat, stitching up the damn wound from the damn hunt that should have been damn easy but hadn't been.

 _It could've been_ , a small, traitorous voice in the back of her head argued.

She shoved the voice away, tying off the threaded stitches a bit more angrily than her sensitive skin would've liked.

She stood up from the motel bed and carefully stripped her blood-soaked shirt from her body, careful to avoid the newly-stitched patch of skin. She grabbed the recently opened bottle of whiskey and carried it into the bathroom, where she immediately turned the shower on. She didn't immediately step inside, instead becoming fascinated by the steam that fogged up the mirror and in doing so thankfully head the reflection of her battered and scarred body.

It wasn't the first time she realized just how alone she was. Demons were hardly the worst creatures out there, and even two demons shouldn't have presented her with much of a problem, but hunting alone had its drawbacks, most notably that there was no one watching her back. Oh, she'd had plenty of offers – most from perverts who liked the idea of having a pretty face around, though a handful had been earnest proposals of partnerships from seemingly good people – but she'd never been brave enough to accept any of them.

And, _damn it,_ she hated admitting that it was fear holding her back. She was Joanna Beth Harvelle, daughter of two of the fiercest, bravest people she knew. And yet… her father had died at the hands of his partner.

Sam Winchester's words flooded her thoughts.

"Bill was all clawed up. He was holding his insides in his hands. He was gargling and praying to see you and Ellen one more time. So my dad killed him. He put him out of his misery like a sick dog. My daddy shot your daddy in the head."

He'd been possessed when he'd so cruelly taunted her, she'd later found out, but the words were still seared into her memory. She'd never had the guts to ask her mother the truth – another show of cowardice – nor to bring it up with Dean because… well, Dean was Dean.

The only two people she might ever consider having at her back, Dean and her mother, and she was too scared to call either one of them up. She sent her mother postcards. She bought more than she sent because her pride wouldn't let her reveal her homesickness to her mother. But Dean…

The last time she'd seen him had been that fateful night that Sam had been possessed. He'd taken off, still under the sadistic influence of the demon, but Dean had stayed long enough to get patched up. They'd both fallen back into old habits, her usual bitching and his macho chauvinism, despite the fact that they'd both matured so much since last having seen each other. Adrenaline and emotions did that, she supposed. He'd promised to call, but she knew he wouldn't. She'd moved on, changed states, names, jobs… but never her phone number. She told herself it was because her mother always needed a way to contact her in case of emergency, but even she didn't believe that lie. It was Dean; it was _always_ Dean.

She sighed, took a swig of whiskey, and turned the shower off. She was no longer in the mood, and she knew she shouldn't be showering right after stitching up her wound anyway. Her thoughts lately had been so jumbled…

With the alcohol in hand, she sat back down on the bed, ignoring the groan of springs under the mattress, and checked her phone. No, she wasn't _checking_ her phone. She was looking for a voicemail, one she should have deleted ages ago…

It had been a shock when he actually _had_ called her as promised. It was several weeks after that horrible night in Duluth, in the middle of a hunt for a shapeshifter. Luckily, she hadn't seen the missed call and voicemail until several hours later, once she'd made it back to her hotel. She didn't know what she would've done had she actually noticed it ringing. The message was simple, short, and to the point.

"Hey, it's me. Just calling to check in. Sam's fine. Got that whole demon mess cleared up. Don't know if this is still your number or you've changed it, but thought I'd try it anyway. Give me a call."

She hadn't called him back. She knew she never would. Her… _feelings_ for him were obvious to anyone and everyone, apparently, no matter how much she denied them. Her mother had torn her a new one, Bobby had warned her about Dean's flightiness, and even possessed-Sam had sadistically taunted her about her one-sided adoration of the man. She didn't know how much _he_ was aware of, but she was damn certain she would do absolutely everything in her power to keep the truth from him. He didn't feel anything for her beyond irritation and protectiveness and _maybe_ brotherly affection, and she'd long ago come to terms with it. So, no, she hadn't called him back.

But that didn't keep her from replaying the message.

She turned off the lamp, curled up on her uninjured side, and brought the phone to her ear, closing her eyes as soon as the familiar message began, already half-lulled to sleep by his baritone voice.

She was a coward, but where Dean Winchester was concerned, she'd take what she could get.


	2. Nothing Going On

**Prompt** : Could you write one before Jo and Ellen die? Like where they're at the Roadhouse and Jo's going about her business and Dean gets angry or jealous or protective or something when he sees her interact with some other hunter?

 **Nothing Going On**

"Twice in two weeks," the familiar and surprisingly welcome voice greeted as the boys took two empty stools at the bar. "World must be coming to an end or something."

Dean grinned up at the blonde as she wiped away peanut shells from the counter in front of them. "What can I say? Just can't stay away from a pretty girl?"

Jo gave him a hard look that told him she couldn't decide whether to look pleased or offended. Eventually, she settled for a smirk, nodding her head in Sam's direction before preparing their usual – two pints of El Sol beer.

"So, how'd the case go?" she asked after pushing the pints towards them.

Dean immediately went for the alcohol, but Sam – always having to one-up him, always having to play the annoying role of gentleman – answered the question before diving in.

"Like we though, a couple of shapeshifters."

"So nothing the Winchester brothers couldn't handle," she said grinning.

Dean swallowed his beer before jumping into the conversation. "Told you it was nothing to worry about," he reminded her.

She raised a single, perfect eyebrow. "Who says I was worried about you?"

She turned and walked away before giving him the chance to respond. Not that he would've anyway. Because they both knew she'd been worried. Definitely _not_ because he couldn't think of what to say back…

"Would you stop already?" Sam groaned, rubbing at his tired eyes.

"Stop what?"

"Stop with the flirting and the 'will they, won't they' and the secret glances behind each other's backs. It's getting disgusting, and for you even creepier than usual."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You and Jo, Dean! Just get it over with, ask her out or sleep with her or kiss her or _whatever_ it is your trying to do."

Dean turned his glance away from Sam and out towards the rest of the Roadhouse. "I seriously have no idea what you're talking about?" he muttered over the lip of his drink.

"Right." Sam retorted. "Fine. Then get that goofy grin of your face, because if isn't about Jo, then I don't want to know."

 _That_ got Dean to lower his drink. "Goofy grin? I don't do _goofy grins_."

Sam let out a sarcastic and completely false laugh. "Really? You know, I never thought I'd say this, but you need to spend some more time in front of a mirror."

"No, _you_ need to… spend some time in front of a mirror." His wonderful retort wilted off to a muttered one-liner that had no business ever having escaped his lips. Unfortunately, Sam heard every single word of it. Luckily for him, though, he was smart enough not to comment on it.

Instead, he moved right back to his original argument.

"I'm serious, though, man," he said. "Whatever you and Jo got going on, just get on with it."

"There's nothing going on."

The conversation was quickly starting to get old, and Dean knew his irritation was seeping into his tone. Sam seemed to have sensed there was some sort of line he was crossing, and he shook his head.

"Whatever. I'll be right back."

"Where you going?"

"I have to pee."

"Oh. Make sure you use the lady's room, Samantha," Dean called after him.

"Jerk!"

"Bitch."

There really was _nothing_ going on between him and Jo. Sure, she was pretty – ok, she was _hot_ – but beyond a basic physical attraction and the occasional banter, there wasn't much else. Granted, he'd gone to bed for much less, but somehow he didn't want that with Jo. Not that he wanted more, he just didn't want _anything_. Maybe it was because of her mother (Ellen always seemed to be glaring at him as if she could read his every dirty little thought). Maybe it was because they'd met at one of his lowest, darkest points. Maybe it was because she reminded him of a younger albeit emotionally more stable version of himself. Whatever it was, there was _something_ keeping him from outright hitting on her or flirting her into the back of the Impala.

Stupid Sam, putting all of these ideas and thoughts into his head. Seriously, there were here for a beer and a cooling-off period, not for a backyard version of Dr. Phil!

His eyes just happened to land on Jo's backside – no, on her _back_ – while she played one of the Roadhouse's arcade games against another customer. Dean smirked. No wonder Jo always had a wad of cash on her; he'd been to the Roadhouse enough times to see that the guys always underestimated her. She won every single time.

This time was no different. Dean heard the high pitch tune that signaled the end of the game and saw Jo's familiar smirk as she turned to the losing opponent. He chuckled under his breath and finished off his beer, turning around to order another one.

He forgot all about the alcohol when he heard the crash behind him.

He whirled, hand on the gun at his back. And he wasn't the only one. Five other men and women – all hunters, he could tell by their reactions – had also left their seats, eyes intently searching for the source of the noise.

He should've guessed Jo would be in the middle of it. But to his relief and wonder, she wasn't the one in trouble.

The man she'd been playing against was on his back, holding his stomach and groaning as if he were dying. Jo was standing over him, arcade rifle in hand, and hardest glare he'd ever seen on her shooting daggers to the man at her feet. The Roadhouse was silent but for the country music playing through the speakers. But the sudden break in conversation didn't seem to bother her. He wasn't sure she even noticed it.

She raised on foot and slammed it down on the man's thigh, spreading his legs apart. In an instant, the arcade rifle was poking him in the one place no man should ever be poked.

"If you _ever_ touch me like that again, I will cut you balls off and feed them to you one mouthful at a time."

Her words were heated, and though they weren't so loud that it seemed she wanted everyone to hear, Dean had no doubt every single person in the bar could hear the truth behind her threat.

"Jo." And there was Ellen, a blank look on her face, standing behind the bar with a mug in one hand and a dishrag in the other. "Bring out another box of whiskey from the back, will you?"

"Yep," Jo answered, "you got it."

Everyone watched as she pressed down on the man's leg one last time before stepping off him, hanging the arcade gun back up, and walking towards the back of the bar.

"Everyone else," Ellen shouted, looking around, "back to business."

No one disobeyed her. Dean suspected people started making up words just to make sure there was no silence. He watched the mother and daughter duo pause, have a hushed conversation in passing, then go about their work. He might have imagined it, but he thought there was a twinkle of pride in Ellen's eyes…

He turned back around to see the bastard was pulling himself back onto his feet. Dean reached for his beer, realized there was none left, then just stood up and walked over to the man.

"Dean," he heard Ellen warn from behind him.

"Just helping a man out," he threw over his shoulder.

The man didn't see him coming, which made his twitch when Dean clapped him on the shoulder all the more pleasing.

"Hey, man," he said, grabbing the man under the armpits, "look like you could use some help." He half-dragged, half-carried the man outside. "Here we go," he said, throwing the man against the closest vehicle, a truck that look altogether too clean to be at the Roadhouse.

"Had some bad luck in there, huh?" Dean asked, grimacing as if he cared.

"That bitch," the man retorted. "That bitch conned me out of my money."

Dean decided to ignore the language for now, though bookmarking yet another reason to hate the man. "Well, she does work here," he answered. "And she has to deal with bastards like you, so you can see how she might need to be a tough girl, huh?"

"I didn't do anyth-"

Dean used this opportunity to punch the man in his big, fat, lying face. The bastard's nose made a satisfying crunch as his knuckles cracked against it. The groans he let out weren't half-bad, either.

"Let's try this again," Dean said, pulling the man up to a standing position. "That girl in there? Her name is Jo, not _bitch_. And she was the wrong girl to mess with for _so_ many reasons, not the least of which is that she's quite the badass, as you were smart enough to find out all on your lonesome. But, see, she's also got this badass mother who will break your shit off the next she sees you messing with her girl. And then there's me. Think of me like her guardian angel. Clearly, she doesn't need me, but I _will_ make sure justice is served how I see fit. You mess with her, you mess with me. Ok, pumpkin?"

The man just stared, either in awe of what was, admittedly, a pretty awesome monologue, or because he was numb from having his nose broken. Dean preferred to think it was the first option.

"Dean!"

It was Jo. Of course it was Jo.

"Yeah?" he answered not looking away from the man now beginning to blubber.

"I don't need your help, you know!" Her voice grew louder as she stormed away from the Roadhouse door and towards the pair of men.

"Yeah, I know," Dean admitted, "but the gentleman in me couldn't let this bastard get away without one last reminder of who he was messing with."

"With you?" she seethed.

This time, he did look up. "With the family."

That shut her up. She had that annoyingly blank stare she'd learned from her mother, so Dean couldn't tell what she was thinking. He meant what he'd said, though. They were both hunters, they'd both lost so much… no matter what was going on between them – which was _nothing_ – they were bound together as family. Somehow, he hoped she knew that.

Eventually, the moment got too awkward for him, so he turned back to the bastard. "I'm gonna break his arm."

" _No_ , you're not." She latched onto his elbow and pulled him away. "I think he's learned his lesson, at least with us.

"Oh, come on, just a little?"

"You're an ass."

"A hot piece of ass, yes I am."

He let himself be dragged back inside, glad that the momentary humor had lightened the mood.

Sam was back at the bar, his first beer still only halfway done. Dean could tell by the look on his face he'd heard at least part of what had happened and guessed the rest.

Jo eventually shoved him towards his brother to take care of other customers, and Dean obediently returned and ordered his second beer from Ellen, who said nothing. Sam, on the other hand, opened his mouth, a telling smirk on his face.

"You say one word, Sam, and I will break your ugly mug right on this counter," Dean muttered, electing _not_ to examine his own actions too closely and _praying_ Sam would do the same.


	3. Each Day As If It Were Your Last

**AN** : First, great big, embarrassingly loud shout-outs to Scaramou for FAVORITING A Little Thing and to loneghost13 for REVIEWING it! You guys rock. Thanks for having faith even so early on in the story's hopefully long life! This one's for you two!

 **Prompt** : plz plz plz! missing scene btween dean and jo from abandon all hope. maybe talking about what couldve or shouldve happened the night before!

 **Each Day As If It Were Your Last**

It was their last day on earth. At least, that's what the pessimists Bobby Singer and angel Castiel were saying. Jo was usually a glass-half-empty person herself, but too much negative thinking in the same room just wasn't healthy for anyone, especially when a group of hunters were roped together, forced to cheer one another up and pretend to one-hundred percent support a plan they all knew was just _made_ to go to hell in a handbasket. Quite literally, too, since killing the Devil himself was next to impossible.

Still, Jo had smiled and joked and drank whatever liquor Bobby had in his fridge because that was what her mom was doing and, despite all of their spats, she admired her mother, so she followed her lead, at least this once.

But the night had quickly passed, and here they were, packing up the two cars they'd be taking to Carthage, Missouri. The sun hadn't even begun to rise yet, but it was almost an eight-hour drive (with Dean driving, closer to seven hours). Jo finished throwing her load of guns and ammo into the trunk of one of Bobby's beat up vehicles, turning when she heard the crunch of gravel behind her.

Dean raised a couple of coolers as he passed her. "Got some chow for the road trip," he said, placing one in the backseat of the one Jo would be riding in and carrying the other one over to the Impala.

"Bobby actually had edible food he's letting us take with us?" Jo asked doubtfully.

Dean snorted. "Food? What? No, alcohol."

She rolled her eyes. "Right. My mistake."

"Do me a favor," he said as he bent into the backseat of the Impala. "Keep an eye on Sam. Make sure he doesn't throw out any beer to make room for his stupid girly weight-watchers health shakes. Smell alone makes me nauseous…"

"Excuse me," Jo said as she walked closer and leaned against car. "Girly health shakes?"

Dean poked his head out, throwing her a hesitant if amused grin. "Oh, I'm sorry. Does that cross some sort of gender line I didn't know existed?"

She shoved him into the car door, unable to hold back her own smile. "I'll have you know I've _never_ had a single _health shake_ , and I can promise you that I am full girl."

She thought he muttered something under his breath, but it was lost to the sound of the car door slamming. It _sounded_ like an observation on the honesty of her last comment. Either way, she decided to ignore it. If it was a snarky remark on her immaturity, she'd just end up smacking him. If it was a candid opinion that she'd left girl-hood behind long ago… well, that was dangerous territory that was best left unchartered.

But Dean had other ideas. In Winchester-like fashion, he charged ahead without a single thought to the consequences of what came out of his mouth next.

"What did you mean last night? About _self-respect_?"

She froze mid-push away from the car.

Ah.

Last night.

 _That_ had happened.

He'd come onto her. Full on, womanizing Dean. Last-night-on-earth speech Dean. Man-of-her-dreams Dean.

And shed turned him down.

She eyed him for a moment, trying to assess what was going through his head at that very moment. He avoided her gaze at first, finding something rather interesting about his shoes. After a very pregnant pause, his gaze met hers. She couldn't quite read what he was thinking, but she could see an earnest curiosity. It might've been because he was rarely shot down by a girl – she wouldn't say _never_ because Dean on a drinking binge had no moves whatsoever – but maybe, just maybe, there was something else there, too.

No, she decided. That was just her imagination playing tricks on her, as it had done so many times in the past. Still, the theme of the day seemed to be _Oh God, Oh God, we're all going to die_ …

Against her better judgment, she leaned back against the car. She didn't look at Dean. He didn't look at her. It was silent but for the sounds of nature waking up around the salvage yard.

"You know," she began suddenly, "I had this boyfriend Rick awhile back. Smooth-talker, handsome, tall, a hunter… guess I have a type," she chuckled humorlessly. "For a while, things were- things were great. Even Mom tolerated him in the end, which is saying something because… you know, it's Mom. He'd come and go, bring all sorts of gifts and tell me all about his hunts and the monsters he killed and the people he met. He was my world. Or, I mean, I thought he was. I guess nineteen's kind of young to know what _love_ and all that's _really_ about… Took me a while to realize he never said he loved me, even though I said it all the time…

"One day, he just stopped coming back. Never heard from him again. Don't know if he's alive or dead. Mom says he probably died on a hunt, but I think she's hiding something from me. I think she knows something, and she just doesn't want to tell me. Always gotta protect her baby girl, right?"

Jo rubbed at her eyes tiredly, suddenly feeling the weight of the day's mission and the heaviness of the conversation and the exhaustion that just came with this life.

Where had she been going with this again?

"Look, I- after Rick, I made a promise to myself that I deserved better. I deserved to be with a man who wanted me for me and not just because I was a distraction or a hot piece of ass or _available_. I swore that I would think twice before giving my _everything_ to someone who didn't feel like giving me their everything back. And I'm not gonna lie, Dean. I used to have such a massive crush on you since the day I punched you in the face." She grinned at the memory, still proud of the right hook she'd thrown at him and the respect he'd (usually) given her since.

"Yeah, I usually get crushes on the chicks I punch, too," he added, looking off in the distance with a ghost of a smile gracing his handsome features.

"Hunters are weird," Jo admitted, her laugh bouncing off the cars littering the salvage yard. Eventually, they both quieted down, settling into a comfortable silence.

"I'm not- I can't afford to be like that, you know?" Dean said.

"And I'm not asking you to," Jo objected. "I'd never ask you to change, Dean, just like I hope you'd never ask me to change."

"Yeah."

She looked at him now, though he refused to turn his head. Somehow, somewhere, the conversation had taken an unexpected turn. She cursed her damn imagination for turning this into a soap opera when he'd just asked a simple question.

She had to end this. End this _now_. End this before she started getting _ideas_ and _feelings_ back that she'd buried so long ago. She pushed away from the car, and the chill of the night air swallowed her. Suddenly, she missed his warmth. _Damn ideas_!

"Best get the rest of them moving," she said as she marched back towards the house. "If we don't leave soon, Bobby and Cas might actually convince everybody this is a stupid idea and we shouldn't do it."

"Maybe I can."

She looked back over her shoulder. "Can what?"

From the dim glow of the porchlight, she saw him gazing in her direction, though she couldn't see his expression. "You know. Change."

She stared. Change? What did he mean change? Change how? Change why?

He shrugged. "Maybe after all this is done-"

"I'm still not jumping into bed with you."

She could've kicked herself for saying it, but _damn it_ she had to be honest. She deserved better – they both did – and she'd meant it when she said she wouldn't ask him to change, just like she knew deep down he wouldn't like it if she did either.

To her surprise, he smiled and looked back down at his shoes. "Not exactly what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I just meant -"

"Don't say it," she said. Her voice was hard, and though the words were pleading, her tone was far from it. She was warning him. "If you don't really mean it, then don't say it."

He looked at her then, and while she noted nervousness, there was no hesitation. "I mean it."

She stared him down, just in case. Just in case her mind was playing tricks on her. Just in case she was seeing things that weren't really there, hearing words that weren't actually being said, misinterpreting what he was trying to say. But for once – or had his eyes always been like that? – even from a distance she could see an earnestness about him that he'd lacked before in their interactions.

Dared she hope…?

What the hell? If this was her last day on earth…

"It's a date."

"After all this is done?"

"After all this is done."

She turned and headed back inside without another backward glance, trying to beat down the joint feelings of nausea and excitement battling for control in her stomach. Hell, maybe last days on earth weren't so bad after all.


	4. Cold as Ice

**AN** : So, this little scene was completely unplanned, but in honor of it FREAKING SNOWING IN DEEP SOUTH TEXAS, I just had to have a little Jo/Dean wintery fun! Plus, this features established Jo/Dean, which just made it all the more fun to write.

I definitely did _not_ get inspired for this chapter when running around outside like a crazy lady throwing snowballs in the air… by myself… in the dark… in my pajamas…

I deny anything like that _ever_ happened.

 **Cold as Ice**

"Dean."

He was walking ahead of her. No, not walking. Marching. Here was a 30 year old man storming off into the snowy woods like a toddler having a temper tantrum after getting his toy taken away.

Except that she hadn't taken his toy away. No, she'd just _saved his life_!

"Dean."

Of course, a _thank you_ would've been to much to ask for. He saves her life, and he expects all the gratitude and kisses and praises in the world. But when the tables are turned and she saves him for a change, he gives her the cold shoulder.

"Dean!"

Enough was enough. She sped up, grabbed his shoulder, and yanked him back. He shrugged her off, but the pause was long enough for her to get ahead of him.

"What the hell, Dean?" she hissed.

"What do you mean, 'what the hell?'" he spat right back. "You pull crap like that, and I don't have the right to be angry?"

"Crap like what? Like saving your life?"

"You know what you did."

"Clearly, I don't! Why don't you enlighten me?"

He swung his arm back towards the warehouse as if the cure to her apparent stupidity might magically be scratched into its aluminum walls. "The vampires, Jo! We've taken out nests before. You're not some idiot benchwarmer that has no idea what's going on!"

"Then what's the problem?"

He lunged forward, so close his breath hit her cheek. "When things go wrong, you do what you got to do to survive. You take out the ones closest to you, and you move on from there."

She snickered. She couldn't help it. She knew Dean hated when she did that, but when he was being a completely ridiculous asshole, she wasn't responsible for her actions.

"Is that what this is about? That I went for a vamp that was further out from me than others? So anytime I deviate from your perfect hunting strategy, I get the brush-off? Good to know."

"You didn't deviate from the strategy, Jo," he sneered. "You just didn't _have_ a strategy. You left yourself wide open."

"Because that thing was coming right at you!"

"Yeah, and one was coming right at you, too! And don't lie to me; I know you saw it. You made a decision to go after one vamp over the other, and it was the wrong decision."

"We're partners, Dean. Saving your life is _never_ the wrong decision."

"It is when you have to put yourself in danger to do it."

"Oh, so you'd never put your life on the line to save me?"

She had him there, and they both knew it. Dean was a savior through and through. No matter what the price, no matter what the consequences, if he could do something to save someone he loved, he wouldn't give it a second thought.

He shrugged and walked around her. "That's different."

Jo rolled her eyes and followed after him, almost slipping on the snowy ground in her rush to keep up with him. "And here we go with that chauvinistic crap again. 'I can get myself killed for you because I'm the man, I'm the head of the house, I'm the big kahuna. But hey, just remember, little lady, don't go off and try to protect the world or anything; we wouldn't want you to scratch up your dainty fingers just to save a life or two.'"

"Cut the crap. The world wasn't in danger. Just one person."

And _that_ right there – that was why Jo adored him. That was why her heart swelled just at the sight of him, why she admired every little sacrifice he made, why she would follow him to hell and back if he asked her to. That was why she stayed with him, defended him, respected him, _loved_ him. Despite everything he did for everyone else around him, despite the number of times he had saved the world, despite the number of boss-level villains he'd taken down, he stayed modest. It'd taken her a long time to see it, to understand that beneath the womanizing façade and the confident strut was a broken man who didn't see himself worth more than any other person. He was humble, a word she'd once doubted could ever be linked to Dean Winchester.

She loved him for it.

But there were also times that she _hated_ that part of him. She hated that he listed himself so low on the hierarchy of creation that no other person was allowed to make the sacrifices for him that he made for a complete stranger. She hated that sometimes, between the cracks, she could spy the shadow of a man who could so easily fall into the depths of despair and think himself unworthy, unlovable. He was better than that. He _deserved_ better than that.

She bent down, fisted a ball of snow, and pitched it forward. It smacked him in the back of the head, just above his jacket collar. She watched heatedly as he froze and then shivered as the flakes fell underneath the collar. A perfect shot.

He turned slowly, a blank stare masking whatever emotion he she'd stoked. "What the hell was that for?" There was no inflection, no heat, no anger.

She walked past him, not bothering to even throw a glance in his direction. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

She didn't get very far before she was sent sprawling into a snowdrift by a blow to the middle of her back. She gasped, spit, and brushed strands of hair from her now wet face.

 _Did he just_ …?

There he stood, not bothering to hide behind some innocent front. His arms hung loose at his side; his stance was relaxed; his eyes were on her.

Oh, he wanted a fight, did he?

She was on her feet and on him in before he could take more than a single step. She tackled him, rolled only when he threw her off. They were on their knees, eyes alight with adrenaline.

The next snowball hit her cheek. She shrieked and ran for cover behind the closest oak.

It wasn't really a fight. It was his way of apologizing; it was her way of venting. They were both so stubborn, so explosive, so emotional. Somehow, this worked for them. This was who they were. All-out wars somehow morphing into snowball fights.

Eventually, he ended up on the ground, arms wrapped around her as she lay half sprawled on top of him, cheek to his soaked-through shirt. Their hearts were racing, gasps and chuckles making puffs of smoke in the cold northern air. For a moment, they were content, neither caring that they were wet or shivering or still covered in vamp blood. They had each other; that was all that mattered.

But then his words came back to her. She fisted his jacket, curling into him even more.

"You _are_ my world, Dean Winchester," she whispered. "And if I could go back, I'd still save your life. Every damn time. No regrets."

Her love for him wasn't a new revelation for either of them, just as his for her wasn't news either. But sometimes they forgot to say it. Sometimes they got so caught up in the hunting and the simple physical attraction that they didn't remind each other as often as they should've.

She felt him sigh. He moved his hand to cradle the back of her head and gently pressed a cheek into her hair. "I know," he said. "It's who you are. It's who _we_ are. And I love it. But sometimes… sometimes I wish we didn't have to be."

She nodded, dreaming of a life where she wasn't scared of losing him to a gruesome death every other day. "Maybe someday," she said.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Maybe someday."


	5. The Dance

**Prompt** : if in the next chapter write they kiss or something, that would be totally wonderful ;)

 **AN:** The creatures talked about in this one-shot were taken from the TV series _Merlin_. Also, this chapter was both exhilarating and hellish to write! I wanted to get it right _so bad_! *Sigh* The things we endure for our ships…

 **The Dance**

"This is a terrible idea," Jo muttered for the hundredth time through gritted teeth. "Possibly the worst you've ever come up with. And that's saying something."

Dean ignored her, snagging two flutes of Champaign from the tray of a passing server.

"Here," he said, practically shoving one into the hand not tightly gripping her clutch. "You look stressed. Have a drink."

"I don't think chugging alcohol is the best thing to be doing right now, Dean!" she hissed. Predictably, he once again acted like she hadn't spoken and downed the glass in one gulp. She shook her head and turned away.

Maybe agreeing to work this case with the Winchester boys had been a bad idea. But they'd both read the same article, and neither she nor they was willing to drop it after driving for hours and already having theories and plans. They were all just too stubborn, too competitive, and too certain they knew better than the other. So they'd decided to work together.

At first, Jo'd been over the moon at the idea. Though she'd kept in touch through phone calls and test messages and emails, she hadn't worked a case with them since that disastrous hunt in Philadelphia when she'd been humiliatingly kidnapped, then accompanied back home by her mother like a disobedient child. And though Sam had been the one to suggest compromising and teaming up, Dean had seemed to like the idea…

Damn her hopelessly romantic heart!

"Look, this was the only way," Dean insisted over the hum of conversation and the lilting tones of classical music floating from some orchestral quartet the party host had hired. "Bobby says these Dora- Daro- _Dorito ghost things_ are only susceptible to fire. And we can't attack them with just any fire."

"I was there," she snapped. "I heard the conversation. We're here for some old knife that was forged in fire and spelled by some ancient witch that is supposed to be the only weapon that can kill them. I got that. What I _don't_ get is why we can't just sneak in through the back door and steal it! Why do we have to dress up and socialize with these strangers when we could've just taken what we need?"

"Because it was the only way to get you to wear that sexy dress."

She glared, but it did nothing to wipe that persistent smirk off his face. Nor did it do anything to keep her heartrate from picking up more than she cared to admit. Even after months of flirtatious comments between hunting advice and friendly babble, she still couldn't stop herself from reacting, even knowing his seductive comments simply came from years of habit and a desire to keep calm during a hunt.

Seriously, _damn her hopelessly romantic heart_!

She shook her head and passed him her untouched flute of Champaign, preferring to keep a clear head, particularly because she felt so out of place there.

The supposed mythical weapon they were hunting had long since been on display in a museum dedicated to showcasing objects of a classical and mythological nature. Jo would've bet all her poker winnings that the majority of the articles were forgeries or complete crap, but Bobby insisted that, whatever the true story behind this knife was, it was the only one historically recorded to have ever killed a Dorocha. And so the plan was to steal it, because explaining that they needed the magic dagger to kill a ghost would've ended with the curator calling the police. Or the psych ward. She wasn't sure which would've been worse.

Luckily, the museum was hosting a fundraising event (the planning of which the hunters believed to have somehow ignited the Dorocha's nightly hobby of killing the locals), and Dean had suggested using the party to get into the museum and steal the dagger with no one being the wiser. Jo had immediately debated the half brained plan, but Sam had agreed that it was most likely their best option.

The ambience in the museum was rather soothing, Jo had to admit, despite her tenseness. The music was loud enough to hear but soft enough not to disrupt conversation. The drink were flowing, but the patrons were classy enough to pace themselves so as to avoid drunken scenes. Little round tables had been set up throughout the open ward so to provide places to gather, but there was enough space in between to avoid the sense of a crowded space. Whoever had planned the event had done so splendidly.

But this was not her type of scene, especially because they were in the middle of a hunt and were planning to rob the place that now held well over a hundred people.

"Come on." Dean held his hand towards her, though his eyes were focused on an archway on the other side of the room. "I can't see Sam from here. We have to get closer."

She took his outstretched hand, trusting Dean instincts now that he was focused on the job instead of the booze. Sam had snuck in as a member of the catering company; he was to set off a distraction of some kind while Dean and Jo got close to the targeted object and used the momentary commotion to replace it with a replica.

Dean led her through the crowd of patrons. At one point, he dropped her hand and instead placed a guiding touch on the small of her back, allowing him to stay beside her rather than in front of her. She was sure to keep a calm, pleasant smile on her face though she keenly felt the warmth of his hand through the fabric of her dress.

When they reached the edge of the small dancefloor, she paused, unsure where he wanted to wait for Sam's signal. He stepped forward and once again held out his hand.

She didn't immediately reach for it. "Really? Dancing?"

He furrowed his brow. "Sam said he'd be under that archway. This is the clearest shot we've got."

He was right.

She took his hand and allowed herself to be pulled between two couples. He took her right hand in his left and placed a hand at her waist then began to sway. No, not sway. _Dance_.

It was her turn to look confused.

"What?" he asked.

She couldn't help a smile. "Nothing, I just- I would never have pegged you for a dancer, that's all."

He scoffed. "I've got moves."

"Yes, clearly you do," she laughed.

He twirled around, making her laugh some more, before he slowed again. As they slowly moved around the dancefloor, they took turns looking for Sam. They fell into a comfortable silence, and Jo found herself almost enjoying the relaxing atmosphere.

"I really do like the dress."

Jo glanced up at him and found his eyes landing on her after a quick glance back at the archway now at her back.

"Really?" Jo questioned, looking down to examine the outfit. It was a simple black dress, not nearly as fancy as most of the ones the other female guests were wearing. It was formfitting, making her feel constricted in her movements, which the hunter in her couldn't stand. But it had been the cheapest in the outrageously expensive rental store, and it had a high slit which would let her run if necessary and a high neckline which wouldn't keep her from bending or fighting without her _ladies_ falling out. "I did the best I could given the short notice, but I feel like a peasant at a royal ball or something."

"Well, you don't look it."

She glanced back up, but he wasn't looking at her anymore. And… was she imagining it, or was there a slight blush in his cheeks?

The comment hadn't really sounded much like him, either. Sure, they sparred like the heroes in fantasy novels with unresolved sexual tension because… well, because that was the only way he knew how to communicate with the other sex, and because she had these stupid feelings that didn't seem to want to stay dead and buried no matter how hard she tried. But that last comment of his had sounded… sincere.

"Thank you." It was the only thing she could think of to say, and _damn it_ , it sounded ridiculously hopeful and wondering even in her ears.

His eyes met hers, and now it was _her_ turn to blush. She could feel the embarrassing heat flood her neck and cheeks.

She looked away, straightening and trying for an air of nonchalance as she returned the compliment. "You don't look half bad yourself."

"I didn't go cheap. Bought the best-looking tux they had."

"It was worth it."

The words just slipped out, completely thoughtless and unfiltered.

Her eyes shot to him, ready to change topics, to make a joke, to suggest they stopped dancing, _anything_ to end this humiliating conversation!

But the hand on her waist tightened, pulled her in closer. Instinctively, the hand at his shoulder moved to his neck. His breath mingled with hers. They were standing so close she could see the specks of gold in his beautiful green eyes. He was staring. She couldn't look away, couldn't speak. She didn't understand what he was doing. At the same time, she understood very, very well.

His eyes lowered to her lips. She swallowed. He looked back up, met her gaze. She saw a question there. She couldn't tell if he was questioning his own actions or asking for permission… she found she was too warm, too comfortable, too lost in his touch to care.

She should've stepped back. She should've put some distance between them. In her mind, she knew it was the atmosphere, the dress, the tuxedo, the alcohol, the adrenaline… it was the perfect storm of emotions leading him to stare and wonder as they were. She knew, because it was the same perfect storm that was pushing her to leave behind her doubts and worries and inhibitions for _just this moment_.

And she did.

She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. It was so light a touch she knew it'd barely done a thing for him, but it was enough to ignite a tempest of emotions in her. Every hint of attraction she'd denied, every thought of adoration she thought she'd long since killed came flooding back in a torrent of fire.

She opened her eyes – when had she closed them? – and found him still staring. But now there was no question in his eyes. Whatever uncertainties he'd had before, there was no trace of them now.

He grabbed her hips, pulled her in, and kissed her.

She gasped. Her body reacted, arching into him. She tightened the grip on his neck, fingers digging into his hair. It was a chaste kiss, nothing more than his lips on hers, and yet every fiber of her being was on fire. She wanted more. She wanted _everything_.

But not now. She forced herself to untangle her fingers from his hair, to pull away. She felt him follow her, only breaking the kiss when she placed a hand on his shoulder. He didn't step away, only leaned his head back enough to meet her gaze. The question was back, the uncertainty tainting his usually poised stare.

She didn't know if he was doubting her or himself, but she couldn't stop himself from caressing his cheek with a hesitant thumb, hoping to reassure him that, even if he wasn't sure he wanted it, she sure as hell knew what she'd done, and she had no regrets.

None that she would show him, anyway.

But at her touch, the hesitation faded away.

He smiled.

Her heart somersaulted.

He'd kissed her. And then he'd smiled.

Something behind her caught his attention, made him straighten. "It's Sam, he said.

Suddenly she remembered. They were on a hunt. People were dying. They were about to rob a museum. This was not the time to get lost in the moment. Or to get lost in him. There would be time for that later. At least, she hoped there would be…?

"Right," she said, shaking the memory of what had just happened from her thoughts. She had to focus. They both did. "The dagger's in the next hall. We need to get as close to it as we can before Sam makes his move."

"I wouldn't mind dancing again sometime," he said hurriedly, still not stepping away or releasing his hold on her. "With you, I mean."

"Good." _Again_ , she hadn't thought, hadn't considered, simply responded. But it seemed to be the answer he'd been looking for.

She was gifted with another smile. But this one was earnest, relieved, and – dare she say – tender.

She decided then and there she liked that smile the best, and she'd do just about anything to get him to smile at her like that again.


	6. As Long As It Takes

**AN** : This one wasn't a prompt so much as an exercise in a more mature and lovable Jo. Takes place early Season 5, right after Sam goes off and leaves Dean on his own.

 **As Long As It Takes**

"Damn it!" Dean slammed his fist against the wooden nightstand, jarring the lamp and half-empty bottle of whiskey.

Jo immediately yanked the needle and thread away from his upper arm. "If you keep doing that, I can't sew you up, Dean," she warned.

"I told you I didn't need you doing it anyway," he growled. He stood up, whipped the alcohol from the table, and brought it to his lips. It was a practiced move, a habitual move, one that Jo had grown quite accustomed to in the week she'd been hunting with him.

After years of sporadic phone calls and hunting-related text messages, they'd met up in River Pass, Colorado, over a week ago – she, her mother, the Winchesters, Rufus. The only one missing from the team had been Bobby, but the poor man was now paralyzed and couldn't go anywhere that didn't allow for easy wheelchair access. She wasn't sure what had happened between Sam and Dean, but by the end of the hunt, Sam had gone his own way, leaving Dean on all on his lonesome.

The thing was, as much as the man gave off a James Dean, devil-may-care attitude, he'd never done well on his own. It was something he'd admitted to her years earlier during one of their late-night conversations at the Roadhouse. She remembered being in shock at his willingness to reveal something he'd obviously buried deep in his soul, something he probably wouldn't even admit to himself most days, let alone to her. But his confession had stuck with her, and so there was no hesitation in her when she'd told her mom she wanted to hunt with Dean for a while. To her surprise, Ellen had approved of the decision, despite her momentary distrust of anyone hunting with her baby girl besides herself. Jo suspected Ellen could see the same need for companionship in Dean that she could. Ellen had long since adopted the boys as her own sons, after all, and she had quite the mother's intuition.

Dean flopped down in the second bed and threw an arm over his eyes, though he didn't release his tight grip on the neck of the whiskey bottle. Jo sighed and momentarily set aside the needle and thread. She was _not_ about to argue with an emotional, pissed off, drunken Dean Winchester.

"Saw a vending machine around the corner," she offered instead. "Do you want something?"

"No."

 _Idiot_ … But she just rolled her eyes and left the room.

She got him some food anyway. She figured when he stopped acting like a four-year-old and the adrenaline of the hunt wore off, he'd be complaining that he was hungry. A couple bags of chips and several candy bars would hopefully hold off the worst of it until they could clean themselves up, get a few hours' rest, and hit a burger joint.

When she got back to the room, he was no longer on the bed. She heard a muffled sound from the bathroom and found him trying to stitch himself up.

"I told you I'd do that," she sighed.

He didn't bother looking up. "It's my wound," he grumbled. "My mess, my job."

Jo threw the snacks on the closest bed and joined him the bathroom. It was cramped, but she needed to be close to him anyway if she were going to stop his shaking fingers from doing more damage than the shapeshifter had already done. She plucked the needle and thread from his hands and took over. To her surprise, he let her.

"I do this all the time, you know." His voice was still gruff, but it wasn't as harsh as it had been when he'd pushed her off earlier.

"I know," she said. "I've also seen the scars you've got because you don't wait until you're sober to do it."

He muttered something under his breath, but Jo ignored it, focusing on the even stitching she'd learned from her mother.

"It'll get better, you know," she commented quietly. "He'll come back."

He didn't answer. She didn't push him. He didn't like these sorts of personal conversations unless copious amounts of alcohol were involved, and she knew he hadn't had enough for that, so she left it alone.

"Why are you here, Jo?"

"I'm keeping you from bleeding out. How much whiskey have you had exactly?"

That earned her a chuck, to which she smiled, glad to see he wasn't completely gone.

"I mean, why are you _here_? Shouldn't you be off with Ellen?"

"Mom decided to stay with Rufus and help get River Pass back in order," she told him. Two more stitches, and that should do it. "I knew you'd be hunting, which is more my speed than cleaning up the aftermath, so here I am. You didn't complain when I offered to come with, so you better not start now."

"I'm not complaining," he scoffed.

"Good. I wouldn't leave anyway."

"You think I can't get rid of you if I wanted to?"

"I think you wouldn't want to get rid of me enough to actually do it." He furrowed his brow, and she grinned at the victory. "There," she added, tying off the last stitch. "Done. See how quick and painless it can be? Bet it won't even scar."

"But I like the scars."

"You just like them because you think _girls_ like them."

"Which they do."

"Depends on the girl."

" _My_ girls do."

She patted his cheek. "You just keep telling yourself that."

He pouted. She laughed. They spent the next hour digging into the pile of food she'd bought and putting a dent into their supply of alcohol (Dean more so than her). She could tell Sam's absence was still weighing on his mind, but at least he was trying to forget, trying to stay in the moment. She knew it wasn't easy for him, not when his baby brother was out of his line of sight. She decided she'd stay with him for as long as it took, sewing him up and making him laugh until the person he _really_ needed came to his senses and got his ass back where it belonged. Ellen wouldn't mind. The boys were family. And you did _anything_ for family.


	7. Places to Go, Things to Kill

**Prompt** : I feel the show does kinda crappy job of showing the mother and daughter relationship between Jo and Ellen outside of their arguing (except for their death scene of course!). Could you do something that shows that they actually like/love each other? Maybe when Ellen almost died? I feel like there was a whole bunch of stuff there they could have gone into but had to ignore. Thanks!

 **AN** : Takes place right after _Abandon All Hope Part Two_. Ellen survived the Roadhouse fire and Dean sold his soul for Sam.

 **Places to Go, Things to Kill**

Jo had never gone 85 mph before in her entire life.

She hoped to God she never would again.

When she'd gotten that call, the one that changed her life as she knew it, she'd flown into a full-blown panic. The Roadhouse was gone, Ash was _dead_ , and her mother…

Pain seared from the hand gripping the Wrangler's steering wheel as it involuntarily clenched. She breathed, forced herself to calm down, to relax her hold on the wheel. Her mother was alive. _Her mother was alive_. But the fact that she almost wasn't was keeping Jo in a permanent state of terror. Her mother was all she had left; if she died, Jo wasn't sure just how long she'd last on her own.

At any other time, that thought might've gotten a chuckle from her. Who would've guessed that the one person she wanted to get away from just months ago was now the one person she couldn't stand to lose?

Finally, the sign for Singer Salvage Yard came into sight. She swung a hard left, slowing down just enough to avoid the fence lining the property and to maneuver through the maze of cars Bobby had collected over the years. She slammed on the brakes in time to barely miss hitting the front porch and didn't even stop to cut the engine before leaping from the Jeep and scrambling for the front door.

It swung open before she'd taken three steps.

Mom.

The impact of their bodies colliding was so hard they stumbled against one of Bobby's cars. Jo didn't care, and judging by the tightening of her mother's grip around her waist, neither did Ellen.

She didn't know when she'd started crying. She didn't know when she'd started talking. But it seemed to be all she could do now.

"I'm so sorry." Over and over again, the same words. "Mom. I'm sorry. Mom, I'm so sorry."

She could vaguely make out her mother mumbling something into her ear, but whatever it was could wait. She had to make sure her mother _knew_ that Jo needed her, that she should never have run off, that she wanted to come back.

"I'm so sorry, Mom."

After a minute, an hour, an eternity, Ellen pulled back, reaching up and taking Jo's face tightly between her hands. Jo could feel her mother shaking. Or maybe that was just her still.

"I need you to calm down now, Jo."

Jo could tell her mother was going for a stern command, but Ellen's eyes were so filled with tears and her voice quivering with so much emotion that it lost all heat.

"But Mom-"

"I know," her mother said. "I already know."

Jo didn't care that she looked frantic, shaking her head and trying to talk while holding back painful sobs. "No, you don't. You could've died, Mom. You could be dead right now!"

"But I'm not."

"But you could be!"

"But I'm not!"

Jo pressed her lips together, holding back the words that she needed her mother to hear, because t _hat_ time, Ellen's voice had been raised. Not nearly as demanding as it usually was but enough. And for once, it was good to hear it; if things had gone different, if her mother hadn't gone out for pretzels, she might never have heard her mother use that tone again.

"Joanna Beth," Ellen began. She patted Jo's cheeks, wiped away the tears streaming down her face. At her gentle touch, Jo's sobs threatened to crawl their way from her throat, but she bit her lip, all the while staring into her mother's stern brown eyes. Ellen gazed right back. Then she smiled. It was soft, shaky, but it was a smile. "Baby girl," she began again, weaker this time, "I _know_. And I'm here. I'm still here."

A million comebacks ran through Jo's mind as she watched her mother reign in her emotions, ranging from outrage at how relatively calm Ellen seemed to be taking almost dying to desperation because there was no way her mother could possibly know everything Jo had to tell her. But she kept it all inside. Now wasn't the time. There would be a time for that later. _Thank_ _God_ there would be a later.

And so she forced her trembling lips into the semblance of a smile. Ellen chuckled, intuitively understanding that the façade was complete crap, but it did the trick. Ellen pulled her in for one last tight hug.

"We've got later, Joanna Beth," she whispered, seeming to read Jo's mind. "We'll talk later."

She led Jo to Bobby's front door with a guiding arm around her shoulders. There on the porch stood Bobby, Sam, and Dean. She vaguely remembered her mother mentioning over the phone that she'd just finished some sort of hunt with the Winchesters, but it honestly hadn't registered until just now. Her mind had been elsewhere at the time.

Bobby was the first to hug her. It was a great bear of a hug, one that forced Ellen to release Jo's shoulder. Though Jo itched to physically reconnect with her mother, she gave herself a moment to close her eyes and return Bobby's embrace.

Sam gave a brief, brotherly squeeze, dwarfing her average frame with his tall build and lanky arms. She hesitated with Dean, though she wasn't quite sure why. It wasn't until he gave her a fleeting but heartening grin and reached for her that she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Thank you," she gasped. It was low, too low for anyone else to hear, especially since they seemed to have started their own soft conversation behind her, but she wanted this to stay between them. This was personal. This was from the bottom of her heart. "Thank you for finding her. Thank you for- for keeping her safe."

She pulled away, rolling her eyes, letting out an uncomfortable snicker, and using the heel of her hand to scrub at the new set of tears threatening to overflow.

"She found us," Dean said just as quietly, eyes settling on the trio conversing amongst themselves. "I'm just glad she did."

"She's the best part of me," she admitted, turning to follow his gaze. "If she'd- if she hadn't made it, I don't know what I…"

She didn't have to finished. She could see in his eyes, in the way he looked at Sam. "I get it. More than you know, I get it."

There was something there, hidden in his words, some weigh that she didn't quite understand, some thread asking to be pulled.

But not by her. She had her mother. That was all she needed tonight.

Bobby offered Jo and Ellen a place to stay for however long they needed it. For once, Jo looked to her mom, waiting for her to take the lead. Ellen smiled, thank him, but shook her head.

"My daughter and I have some catching up to do," she told Bobby, wrapping an arm around Jo's waist. "I think we'd be better off on our own for a little while, some good old mother-daughter bonding time."

Jo smiled, the first genuine one of the night. "Mother knows best."

They said their goodbye, promising to keep in touch and making the Winchesters swear to do the same – Bobby needed no encouragement, as he'd proven to always be only a phone call away – before climbing into Jo's Jeep. Ellen took the driver's seat, for which Jo was grateful; she was in no state to drive at the moment.

"Where to?" Jo asked as Ellen pulled out of the drive with a final honk goodbye to the men in the rearview mirror.

Ellen seemed to mull the question over. "First, I think you and I need to take a couple days off. Go off the grid, regroup, reconnect."

Jo nodded in complete agreement. It was strange; she couldn't imagine she would've been so welcome to the idea of a vacation from had the suggestion been made to her just a few days ago, but now… one phone call, and her priorities had been completely twisted about. Her family – her mother – came first. Though she knew she was running on adrenaline and relief at the moment, she hoped never to lose sight of that again, even once all the heightened emotions wore off. No, she'd make _damn certain_ she never lost sight of it.

"And then?" Jo asked. She couldn't help it. While hunting had been a week by week, day by day régime, life with her mother had been more stable, more scheduled.

"And then…" Ellen hesitated. "We'll have to talk about it. And when I say we'll talk, I mean that you and I are going to have a sit down about what it'll mean and what's allowed and what isn't, and if you don't agree to my terms, it ain't happening. But maybe, just maybe… seems there's a couple hundred new demons on the loose after tonight. Might not be a bad idea for you and me to go send a few of them back where they belong."

"You mean- you mean hunting together?"

"I mean you and I _talking_ about hunting together. There's nothing set in stone, and like I said, I've got terms that have got to be met-"

"Done."

"What?"

"Done," Jo repeated. "Whatever terms you have, whatever things you want settled, I'm all in."

"Now, don't say things you don't mean just because-"

Jo couldn't help snorting at that. "Mom, you may be the mother in this little duo here, but I can guarantee you that I'm not letting you out of my sight anytime soon either. So if hunting together means letting you boss me around and coddle me and lecture me about the risks I'm taking, well… I can think of worse things to happen."

Like her mother dying when Jo wasn't there to stop it.

Ellen eyed her, lips pressed firmly together in a way that was all too familiar to Jo, usually one she earned when her mother was trying to tell if she was lying. In the past, she usually had been; she was being completely honest now.

Ellen turned back to the road. "Like I said, we'll talk about it."

Jo leaned back against the headrest, taking in her mother's profile. She felt lighter, somehow, with her mother beside her and a halfway decent plan for the future. "You know, I think the Harvelle girls could outdo the Winchester boys any day."

Ellen chortled. "Damn straight, they could."

"We should challenge them next time we see them."

"We'll give them some time, let them have some needed practice before they take us on. We've got places to go right now, anyway."

"Places to go, things to kill," Jo said.

She suddenly realized she wouldn't have it any other way, not so long as she had Ellen by her side.


	8. Nobody Drives Baby

**Prompt** : In my hc Jo and the Impala are the two most important women in Dean's life. Can you write something about Jo driving the car?

 **AN** : This one got moved up in the queue because I need something lighthearted in my life right now, and this prompt was enough to make it happen. Still, it didn't turn out quite the way I wanted it to. Ah, well. Tis life.

Also, don't forget to leave suggestions/prompts! I would love to hear some ideas from my lovely readers!

 **Nobody Drives Baby**

The first thing Dean noticed was the pounding in his head that was so painfully rhythmic Bonham would've been proud. Seriously, he hadn't had a headache this musically talented in months. And he was no stranger to the pulsing aftermath of a head injury. Or a night of partying. Or lack of sleep. Or too much thinking. Or dealing with Sam.

Damn, his brain was probably mush by now.

The second thing he noticed was the warmth of bedsheets pulled up to his chest. _That_ , he wasn't so used to. In fact, it took him a moment of inner panic to remember that – no, Sam had not turned eerily domestic, nor had he been kidnapped during the night – Jo was hunting with them.

Jo Harvelle. He wasn't sure what to do about her. She was a firecracker – unpredictable, unstoppable, undecipherable. At first, he hadn't liked having her around. He liked her, of course; she was like his little sister. But that was the problem. He didn't need another kid to keep safe; Sam was enough work as it was! He'd said as much to Sam, that she'd just be better off waiting for Ellen to come back and hunt with her in a couple weeks, but his bitch of a brother had just rolled his eyes and told Dean that he worried too much and that he needed to relax.

He'd never admit this to Sam, but he'd been right. Jo had proven early on in their team-up that she could take care of herself. That first mission almost a month ago had almost been the death of him. All he could see was Jo being taken by that dead serial killer in Philadelphia, and her mother screaming her head off because he didn't know where her daughter was. But she'd been fine. More than fine. Damn, she'd practically taken the ghoul out all by herself.

The irony was that _Sam_ was now the one asking Jo when Ellen would be ready to hunt again. It seemed Jo was just to good at the job, and Sam was now bored.

"I know you're awake. You're not as good at the 'fake sleeping' as you'd like to think."

He sighed and opened his eyes, blinking away the sting of the dimmed light against his unaccustomed sight. There was Jo, sitting at the table only a few feet away from the bed, grinning at him over the pages of her hunting journal. By the glow of light filtering in through the drawn curtains of the motel room window, he judged it was morning, possibly even afternoon.

"Glad to have you back," she added.

He chuckled, rubbed at his eyes. It did nothing to calm the jackhammering behind his eyes. "How long was I out?"

She closed the book. "Not too long. A couple of hours. You remember what happened?"

He nodded, waving away the underlying tenseness that always hit a hunter when a partner had gotten injured.

It wasn't a lie, really. He did remember. Mostly.

They'd gone after a witch – no, an entire coven. Two witches left. One somehow got the jump on him – he couldn't remember exactly how it'd happened, but he was determined to find a way to blame Sam _before_ his brother started making jokes about Dean being beaten up by a girl – and he'd been thrown against the wall. That'd been nothing new, of course, but there'd been a lot of bleeding. He must've hit something in the landing. He vaguely remembered Sam telling him to stay awake. He'd tried telling Sam he didn't need to be treated like a damn princess, but he wasn't sure if that thought had actually made it out of his mouth. Everything after the body slam against the wall was a bit hazy.

He kicked the bedsheets off, surprised at the amount of difficulty he was having in actually freeing his legs, and sat up, scrubbing at his face.

The motel room door opened. He squinted against the unexpected brightness, but didn't need perfect vision to know the hulking figure outlined by sunlight was his brother.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty!"

Dean glared and didn't bother justifying the comment with a response. That only seemed to make Sam's grin widen. He threw a plastic bag at Dean and briefly announced he'd bought breakfast tacos before sitting opposite Jo and digging into the first of his three bean-and-cheese tacos.

Dean prayed he got the gas out _before_ they all piled back into the car.

"You park the Impala close by?" Dean asked as he unwrapped his taco.

"Didn't need to drive," Sam garbled around a mouthful. "Just walked."

"Oh." Jo shifted and reached into her back pocket. "Here are the car keys."

She was holding Baby's keys out for him to grab. Why? Why did she have Baby's keys? He didn't reach for them. It didn't feel right. Yes, those were Baby's keys, but _why did she have Baby's keys_?

"Why'd you-"

He stopped. Swallowed. Started again.

"Why'd you need the keys?"

Jo and Sam shared a look. He knew that look. Sam gave it to him all the time when he was being particularly stupid.

"Because," Jo answered, "you were in no condition to drive back here last night, being unconscious and everything."

"Yeah. Yeah I get that." He chuckled nervously. "So, uh, so Sam drove, and you just held onto the keys until I was awake. Right? Right, Sam?"

Sam furrowed his brow. "No, I was too busy trying to get you not to bleed all over the upholstery, so Jo drove."

There was no food in Dean's mouth, and yet he choked. "Jo drove. Jo drove? That's- that's just great. That's- that's awesome."

Jo finally lowered her extended arm. "What's wrong with me driving your car?"

"Nothing! It's great. It's fantastic."

"Yeah, you said that already." Another time, he may have heeded the warning that was just _oozing_ from her sardonic tone, but all he could focus on now was someone besides him who was also not Sam driving Baby. Sam, he allowed behind the wheel because Sam was his little brother, and it was Dean's responsibility to show him around cars. But anyone _other_ than Sam?

The brother in question, of course, suddenly seemed to find it all hilarious. "Dean, it's fine," he chuckled. "Nothing happened. She's fine."

"I know she's fine!" Dean snapped. "If she wasn't fine, I'd be killing people. But I'm not killing people. Because she's fine. So everything's fine."

Jo crossed her arms. "What, you don't trust my driving? You want to go inspect your car in case I drove it over a cliff and am just refusing to tell you?"

The right answer was _no_ , he did not want to run into the parking lot and examine every inch of Baby for scratches and dents and dust. He knew that was the answer she was looking for. His brain knew it. His heart knew it. But, damn it, his mouth sure as hell didn't care.

"Oh, God, yes."

He was out the door before either Jo or Sam had even gotten out of their seats. He heard Jo's exasperated shouts and his brother's not-so-hilarious instructions that Dean go check the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

Ah, there she was.

Baby.

"Seriously!" Jo huffed, watching as he circled the Impala. "Should I get you a magnifying glass, Sherlock? That might speed up the process."

Dean glared, unamused by her sarcasm and even more disgruntled when he saw that Sam had brought his food out with him as if this were a dinner theater.

"Aha! Look at this!" He pointed at a dent etched into the driver's side of the hood. "What did you do? Bang into every fire hydrant in the town?"

Jo marched up to him and bent down to squint at the dent that was so big the whole state of Texas could've been crammed into it.

"That's bird crap, you idiot," she snarled.

It was not!

Oh.

Yes, it was.

"Well, maybe _that_ one is, but what about this one over here?"

"I don't have time for this. Sam, keep an eye on him, will you? If he doesn't find his sanity by the time I get out of the shower, we might have to call the men in white lab coats to come take him away." She scowled at him over her shoulder. "For _his_ safety more than ours."

He didn't bother acknowledging that last comment, nor did he justify Sam's laughter with anything more than a glower. He was too busy examining a scratch that may or may not have just been the splattered remains of a dead insect.

It was just a dead insect.

 **AN** : Thoughts?


	9. What Would've Been

**Prompt** : What was Jo thinking when she was dying? I want something sad! Angst please!

 **AN** : So, this one got away from me. No apologies. None whatsoever.

 **What Would've Been**

It was nothing like what she'd always imagined a kiss from Dean Winchester would be.

First of all, for all of his smooth one-liners and confident stride and model-ready looks, there wasn't an ounce of romance when his lips met hers. Not that she expected it to be romantic. She was, after all, lying on the floor of a small-town hardware store surrounded by homemade explosives and holding her guts in with duct tape and whatever semblance of strength she was faking for her mother's sake. However, she was surprised to find she didn't mind the like of passion in the kiss. Somehow, his tenderness held the promise of something better.

Secondly, his hands were shaking. She could feel the slight tremble she wasn't sure he knew was there as he cradled her head and stroked her cheek with his thumb. Even with the way her luck was going today, she'd bet he could feel a similar quiver in her lips. Pain, blood loss, dying, Dean – she wasn't sure which of them was the cause. Probably all four at once. She wasn't interested or mentally capable enough at that moment to figure it out.

A part of her hated him for kissing her. Why? Why now? Why when she was about to die? Why when her hands were so stained with her own blood that she didn't dare reach for his cheeks the way she wanted to, when she was so weak she wasn't sure she could even lift them more than a few inches? Why when she'd just told him _last night_ that she wanted to go out respecting herself and respecting the woman she'd become and the hunter she'd made herself to be? She didn't want this. She didn't want this!

But the other part of her loved him for it.

It wasn't a passionate love. It wasn't a physical love. It most certainly wasn't the embarrassingly shallow 'love' she'd thought she'd felt for him years ago. No, this was something different, and like the tenderness in his kiss, it was something better.

She loved him because this one kiss gave her an entire future.

She saw the first time he took her on what she considered to be their first date.

It was after a hunt. She just stepped out of the shower, slipped on her pajama pants and tank top, when he knocked on her door. He got all awkwardly blunt, making it obvious that something was different simply because he was trying so hard to prove to her that everything was normal. She let him in, watched hesitantly as he not-so-subtly avoided her question of whether Sam would be eating with them and started unloading the Styrofoam containers from their bags. It wasn't the cheapest burger from the closest fast food joint. It wasn't the same food he'd gotten for himself and simply assumed everyone would be ok eating. It was Chinese take out.

"What is this?" she asked.

He shrugged. "It's food. You know, the thing humans need to eat it to survive?"

She rolled her eyes. "I thought you hated Chinese food."

"I don't hate it. I just think nothing beats good old American food. You know, like a jalapeno bacon cheeseburger with extra onions and fries and a slice of apple pie on the side? God, I love this country…"

"So… why the Chinese food?" A sudden thought hit her. "Is this because last night I said I could kill for some sweet and sour chicken?"

"Don't get all girly on me, Jo," he moaned around a mouthful of noodles. "I was hungry, and this place was the closest restaurant. That's all."

She didn't push. After all, given his penchant for thinking with his stomach and oftentimes ignoring the nutritious desires of others, it probably was a stroke of luck for her cravings. Still, when they left town the next morning, she counted two local restaurants advertising apple pies right across from the motel. The logo of the Chinese restaurant didn't come into view until they'd reached the edge of town.

She refused to tell him what had her smirking for the next two hours.

She saw the first time she kissed him.

They'd been hunting for months now. They'd had frisky banter, they'd shared meaningful looks, they'd grown comfortable with light, harmless touches. But she'd left it at that, and so had he. She didn't dare push too far or let herself get pulled in. She liked him, and she liked hunting with him; that was all she could take at the moment. And given the lack of any pursuit on his end, he seemed content to leave it at that as well. Sometimes it stung; other times it was all she needed.

But then they'd gone after a rugaru. She could still see it in slow motion – the creature leaping, Dean firing, she screaming. And then the silence. That awful, horrid silence. And the stillness. No movement from either the monster or Dean.

She'd rushed him to the hospital, and here she was days later in the same clothes she'd had when they'd jumped from the Impala and chased the creature down. The doctors and nurses had asked her to take a break – practically begged her – but she wouldn't. She _couldn't_. They didn't understand why. Hell, even she didn't fully understand why. But she stayed, and she held his hand and talked to him and sometimes even yelled a little.

Sam was on his way. Whatever had pulled him away from his brother certainly wasn't strong enough to keep him away while Dean was lying unconscious in a hospital bed.

She hummed. It was some sort of lullaby she couldn't remember ever not knowing. It was nothing special, nothing important. But it blocked out some of the machines' beeping and droning. She wasn't sure how much longer she could take.

And then he opened his eyes. No, he'd had them open for a while, if his steady gaze was anything to go by. She yelled again. Why hadn't he told her he was awake? Why had he allowed himself to get taken down in the first place? How dare he even think of leaving her there by herself? Had he heard the threats to the Impala she'd made if he dared die on her?

She was irrational, completely and utterly irrational. And for that very reason, she had no explanation as to why she leaned forward and kissed him.

When she pulled back, she could see her own shock mirrored in his expression. He opened his mouth, but she didn't let him say a word. She didn't want to hear it. Whatever it was, they would deal with it later.

They never did sit down and talk about it; it wasn't their way. Instead, Dean's way of handling it was to hold her hand during the entire car ride to Bobby's. Jo's was to hold on just as tightly.

She saw the day they got married.

At first, they'd started planning for the usual ceremony, but life kept on getting in the way. First, Bobby broke his leg and wouldn't be able to make the drive up – both she and Dean had refused to get married without him there. During their next attempt, some higher-level demon decided to start demolishing whole towns – there was no choice but to put their nuptials on hold and go stop the son of a bitch. Then Gordon had died during a joint hunt – no one had been in the mood to celebrate anything.

Somehow, she stayed calm and collected through it all. She had to, because she could see Dean start thinking, start questioning. It frightened her more than any creature on God's green earth could. After her asking and asking and _asking_ , he finally snapped. Every fear and doubt he'd been letting poison his mind and their relationship came pouring out

What if it just wasn't meant to be? What if their choice of lifestyle just didn't allow for these types of relationships? What if this was life telling them to get out before it was too late.

She'd never felt so uncontrollably livid and panicked in her entire life. How could he doubt her? She wanted him with every fiber in her being, wanted to fight alongside him, wanted his battles to be hers, wanted their futures so tightly entwined no one could ever separate them.

She told him as much. And he heard her; it was so obvious in his tears, for as much pain as Dean carried with him, he only ever let others see him cry when his heart was being torn in two.

Still, he didn't stop her when she walked out, slamming the door behind her.

It was Sam who got them back on track. She had no idea what was said between the brothers after she left; she'd only asked Dean once, and the only answer she'd gotten was that Sam had told him what would happen if Dean walked away from her.

She didn't push for more. She didn't need to know. Whatever the conversation had been, she was forever indebted to Sam Winchester.

She, Dean, Sam, Bobby, Cas, and her mother were the only people in attendance. There was no fancy dress, no suit and tie, no tiered cake and flowing champagne. It was their family in all their glory - flannel shirts, discount dresses, and a fridge full of beer.

It was the best day of her life.

And so it went.

She saw the first truly explosive fight of their marriage – the screaming, the crying, the apologies, the making up.

She saw the first time she found out she was pregnant. Dean had been so vulnerable, so afraid of bringing a child into this world, knowing everything that could hurt that little boy or baby girl.

She saw the moment she miscarried. They didn't leave their bed for three days.

She saw them hunting together. It took time to figure out how to balance their protectiveness of one another with the desire to protect others, but they made it work.

She saw Sam start branching away from Dean. Dean hated it, yelling that he didn't have to go off on his own just because Jo was hunting with them. Sam tried to convince Dean he had to find his own life, had to find a purpose outside of hunting, something he'd always craved but hadn't been able to discover. With Jo's help, Dean settled down, though he never could truly hide his distress and anguish every time Sam left for a couple of weeks doing God knew what.

She saw their first child being born. It was a little boy, a perfect, beautiful baby boy named after both their fathers. Four years later came another little one, this time a girl, and she was daddy's little girl from the moment Dean held her in his arms. Dean and Jo weren't perfect parents, just like they weren't perfect spouses, but they loved those children with everything they had. And somehow, with the shielding help of Bobby, Ellen, Sam, Cas, and even other hunters she and Dean met and befriended over the years, raising their two children in this dangerous world seemed almost manageable.

They lived. She and Dean lived. And they loved. God, she loved him. She loved him and their children and their life together.

In the end, they died as no one could've predicted – in bed, of old age, surrounded by family. He held her hand as she gave her last breath. Or did she hold his? It didn't really matter. They'd lived. They died, but they'd _lived_.

He broke the kiss, but he didn't let her go. His forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling together.

Had he seen it?

It had felt so real…

He _must've_ seen it.

No. No, he couldn't. Please, God, _no_.

She'd needed it. She'd needed to see the future because she was dying, because there was no future for her. But he had his life ahead of him. He didn't need to see what could have been – what should have been – because he had a million could-haves and should-haves just waiting for him, if only he fought for them...

She opened her eyes. His were still screwed shut, his jaw clenched, his lips trembling. And in that moment, she knew. For better or for worse, he'd seen even just a shadow of what she had. He'd seen everything that might've been, and he didn't want to let it go. He wanted that future, too. He wanted it with her.

They could never have it.

They broke apart without another word to each other. She couldn't look at him – whether it was death tightening its cold grip on her weakening body or her unwillingness to shatter the beautiful image of their beautiful family of four, she couldn't say.

She felt lighter and colder until not even her mother's loving embrace kept her tied to this world.

The last thing she saw was his hand in hers, both scarred and wrinkled, golden bands sparkling in the dim light.

And then… peace.


	10. Mistletoe

**AN** : A very blessed Merry Christmas to all my lovely readers and fellow writers. May you have the happiest of seasons filled with love, happiness, and peace. A particular set of hugs and kisses to **tara hitge** for reviewing and following and to **KitKatCon** for favoriting A Little Thing!

 **Mistletoe**

At first, Dean didn't understand what was so unsettling about seeing the group of hunters together for Bobby's little Christmas gettogether. The 'guest list' consisted of Bobby, Sam, Dean, Ellen, Jo, Rufus, and Ash, so there were no unfamiliar faces. It wasn't the food or drink because Bobby had gotten the crowd favorites of beer and burgers. So what was it?

It wasn't until Sam commented that it was weird seeing Bobby smile that he got what was upsetting him.

It was rare to see a crowd of hunters together without everyone in a panic about killing a monster. The only times he'd been with a group of hunters this big had been when they were hunting the biggest and the baddest. He couldn't sit down and drink his beer because his body wanted to start pacing. He couldn't focus on the poker game because his head kept on trying to bring up the most recent lore he'd researched.

"You, too, huh?"

And then there was the blonde bombshell to deal with. Dean turned, found Jo leaning against the porch railing beside him. He hadn't heard her join him outside.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

She turned to face the party inside. "I can't wrap my head around the fact that my mom is in the same room as Bobby, and it's not because someone's life is on the line."

And it was little comments like that which made his insides get all gummy and gross and Sammy-approved.

When Jo and Ellen first drove up: "Wow, she's wearing a flannel shirt just like I am."

When Jo laughed at his stupid joke about Bobby's kitchen towel: "Gee, she thinks I'm funny even when I'm really not."

When Jo lunged for her second burger before Ash could get to it: "Man, I like a girl who threatens to kill someone because she's hungry."

When Jo said exactly what he was thinking: "Golly, it's like she gets me or something."

Really, it was embarrassing.

Unless…

"You know, it's kinda nice," he said, turning to face her. He stepped a little closer under the pretense of getting comfortable against the porch railing.

"What's nice?"

He shrugged. "The time to just, you know, get to know one another without bullets flying or monsters threatening the universe."

She chuckled, cocked her head. "I'd argue the best way to know someone is on a hunt, when everything is on the line and their true character comes out to play."

"Well- well, yeah." He scratched his head. "But there are some things that aren't possible to find out on a hunt."

"Really?" she asked. "Like what?"

Ah. She was toying with him. She wasn't even trying to hide that cheeky grin of hers. But she hadn't exactly shot him down yet, so…

He shuffled a little bit closer. To his delight, she stayed where she was.

"I don't know. Maybe there are some things you really want to do, but a hunt isn't exactly the right place or the right time to do it."

"And a Christmas party with parental figures right next door _is_ the right place and the right time?"

He shrugged, smirked. "It could be."

He was looking right at her then. He always forgot how short she really was. She had such a confident way about her that she always seemed bigger than her 5'4" height. But standing beside her now, looking down into her brown eyes, he found their height difference natural, as if she might fit perfectly when pressed up against him.

She sighed, her gaze never breaking from his. "I'm getting the feeling this still isn't the right place or time."

He blinked. _That_ wasn't the vibe he'd been getting from her. Still, she didn't seem in a rush to put some space between them, so he stayed where he was, so close her shoulder brushed against his chest every time he breathed.

Her gaze shifted upwards. "But if we just happened to find ourselves under some mistletoe, I would hate to break tradition and walk away without… you know."

He glanced up to find a thin, pitiful looking strand of mistletoe hanging from the beam right above them.

"Well, it is tradition," he said, lowering his gaze once more to find a light blush marring her pale skin. He almost called her out on it, wondering suddenly if all that flirting she always sent his way was just talk, if she wasn't quite as confident in herself as she pretended to be. But when her eyes lowered to his lips, he decided he'd shelf the teasing for later. Right now, he had other priorities.

Why was he nervous all of a sudden? He was Dean Winchester, and Dean Winchester hadn't gotten nervous about kissing a girl since the third grade when Emmaline Martin had dared him to kiss her by the by the old swing set. Emmaline, with her buck teeth and freckles and black pigtails and multicolored overalls. But Jo wasn't Emmaline Martin. She _most definitely_ wasn't Emmaline Martin. So why the nerves?

Thank God his body was acting on pure instinct, because his brain was no help as his head lowered. She craned her neck. He closed his eyes. Their lips met.

It was short, sweet, curious. After a moment, he pulled back and opened his eyes. She was gazing back at him, hesitation in her eyes. Her lips had been soft, pliable. He hadn't been expecting that. Jo'd always seemed the type to fight for dominance.

He touched the small of her back, pressed her closer. Her hands reached for the lapels of his jacket. Between his push and her pull, their bodies melted into each other, and their lips met again. This time, she was stronger, confident. Dean slanted his mouth over hers, wrapped her in his arms. She moaned, pulled him lower.

"Oh, geez!"

They broke apart so fast Dean knew he'd have bruises from ramming against the porch railing.

"Seriously?" Sam gasped as he swayed back and forth as if unable to decide whether to stay outside or run back indoors. "You're going to make out right out in the open for everyone to see? For _mothers_ and _brothers_ to see?"

Jo cleared her throat and ran a hand through her long blonde hair. "I think I'll check in on Mom, see how soon we can eat the pie." She whirled past Sam's slumped figure, pausing only long enough to wag a finger at him and threaten to cut off vital male organs if he said anything to her mother. Judging by Sam's look of resignation and disgust thrown Dean's way, he believed her.

"Really, Dean?" he sighed, standing stiffly at Dean's side. "Jo? Of all the girls you could possibly sleep with, you go with the one whose mother has a shotgun collection and knows how to find us?"

"Hey, I didn't do anything she didn't want," Dean grinned.

"Just be careful," Sam grumbled, "ok? We've got few enough friends who are still – you know – breathing, and I'd appreciate not having to cross the Harvelle women off our list, too, just because you couldn't keep it in your pants."

Dean lounged back against the railing, perfectly content now taking in the view _inside_ Bobby's house. "The heart wants what the heart wants, Sammy."

"The heart- Dean, you don't have a heart. Not when it comes to girls."

Dean tried to debate the point but conceded when no valid counterarguments came to mind. "Yeah, maybe. Could be nice though, don't you think?"

"What? You and Jo?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know. I always thought she was more like a sister to us."

"To you, maybe, but that's because you have no game whatsoever, you nerd."

Sam paused. He looked between the young hunter laughing at whatever comment Ash had just made and his brother watching her with a dopey smile on his usually serious face.

"Huh."

Dean cocked his head but didn't look away from the girl. "What?"

Sam shrugged. "Nothing, just… huh."

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, Dean and Jo together. Maybe they could actually give each other a little bit of hope and light in this dark and dismal world. God knew they both deserved it…

Huh.


	11. Too Good to be True

**AN** : So… hey! It's been a while! Not going to go into all the boring little details, but I started grad school, and let's just say it's been kicking my butt. I've recently associated computers and typing with painfully long essays, which has made me less than enthusiastic to stay on a computer longer than I have to, even if it is to write some Jo/Dean magic.

But thank you to those who have stuck around! Many have reviewed, favorited, and followed A Little Thing since I last updated, and I could not be more grateful. You beautiful people are the reason I keep kicking myself for not being a faithful updater. Seriously, I have bruises.

Anyways, let's put an end to this BM scene (GM scene…?), and move onto what you really came here for!

 **Prompt** : This is a special request from loneghost13 – what if Mary hadn't been the one brought back in "Alpha and Omega"…?

 **WARNING** : This one rather vividly talks about hell and torture. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here…

 **Too God to Be True**

She was back at the beginning. Jo remembered when she used to feel relief at that, when she was so overwhelmed from the lack of pain that she could barely stand. Bones that were whole, skin that was unbroken, clothes that were no longer sticky with blood and sweat – it was as if she'd only imagined the hours, days, _years_ of endless torture. But now – after reliving this sadistic cycle of agony and respite and agony and respite – she knew better. Being made to feel human again wasn't a gift. It was a curse. It meant they'd thought of a new vicious way to rip her to pieces.

It was hell. It was literally hell. When she'd died in that hardware store, feeling safe in her mother's arms despite the fact that she was holding her own intestines in, she hadn't even considered the possibility that she might end up in hell. She'd thought about her mother, naturally, who was so uselessly sacrificing herself that Jo would've kicked her mother's ass had she been able to feel her own legs. She'd thought about Bobby, who would no doubt find a way to shoulder some sort of senseless guilt for their deaths and sink further into the false comfort of liquor. She'd thought about a pair of perfect green eyes that had been so filled with self-loathing and pain as they'd turned away from her that she had almost died right then and there.

Yes, she'd been thinking a lot with her last, shaky breaths. But not a single thought about the afterlife. Now she could think of nothing else.

The demons had started off easy – shredding, ripping, sawing, burning. Oh, she hadn't thought it 'easy' at the time, but looking back… the torture had all been physical. She should've appreciated that. She'd had no idea how much worse it could be. After all, what could possibly be worse than being hung midair from iron hooks surgically implanted through the skin and muscle of her limbs and chest? What could be worse than having a demon vividly describe how the instrument in his hand would sever her left eye from its socket before it was scooped out completely? What could be worse than the perpetual shrieks of pain and suffocating odor of burning flesh and rotting corpses?

Even through the constant pain, she'd grown comfortable in the predictability of it all. She'd forgotten her torturers were demons, and while demons relished the pains of the flesh, they _thrived_ on the pains of the soul.

The first time she'd been released from the hooks, she'd lain there on the stone floor for what felt like days, her body so broken that even the hope of freedom could not make it move. When she'd finally opened her eyes and blinked away the haziness of fear and darkness, she'd realized that she'd been scratching at her wrist. Scratching. With fingernails. But they'd ripped those off, one by one. Hadn't they?

Stupid, foolish Joanna. She'd felt hope, hope that she'd imagined it all or that she was being thrown into a cell and forgotten. And, of course, as soon as she let that treacherous seed of light take root, the demons had snapped her back to reality, killing the hallucination with the thrust and twist of a knife to her stomach. They'd savored that particular session. Apparently, she'd grown boring and unresponsive, but having that hope, that reminder that she had once been human stripped away… her screams had echoed through hell for hours.

She'd fallen for the illusion a second time. Then a third and a fourth. Eventually, she'd stopped playing their games. It was hard. _Damn_ , it was hard. Even knowing it was all a hallucination, knowing that the smooth skin and clean clothes were a damn lie… eventually she'd realized that the respite wasn't worth the pain, that she was torturing herself more than the demons were by letting herself believe that she was safe and free just because she needed to be in denial for a few brief moments.

She'd stopped believing. She'd beaten their game. And then they'd raised the stakes.

They'd shown Jo her mother. Ellen, having come to rescue her daughter. Ellen, having nuked the gates of hell just to drag her only daughter up to heaven. And, once again, she'd bought it.

That time, it was a knife to the eye that had dragged Jo from the dream. The demons' laughter had almost drowned out her screams that night.

It took her a few more hallucinations, but eventually she'd toughened up. They'd started sending others. Bobby, Garth, Rufus, Castiel, Dean. That last one was the worst aside from her mother's appearances, not because she'd wanted to see him any more than the others, but because if there _were_ some stupidly suicidal march into hell, there wasn't a doubt in her mind Dean Winchester would find a way to plant his ass on the frontlines.

Eventually, even the familiar faces hadn't made her react. The demons had continued their pre-session torture through hope-filled illusions, but it no longer filled them with the glee it used to; they were just biding their time until they could brainstorm another way to rip her soul apart.

And so here she was again.

She was standing in a garden or a park. She couldn't quite tell, and she didn't really care. Looking around only made the dream seem more real. She'd learned to stop searching her surroundings after the third round with Bobby 'rescuing her.' She just stood there, waiting. Whatever hallucination they had planned, it would come to her. After a few minutes of silence, a rustling in the mass of brush and trees ahead of her proved her right.

The tall, confident figure of Dean Winchester stumbled from the greenery, eyes on whatever it was he was carrying in his hand. This version of him looked older than usual, she noted, watching as it walked forward blindly, still not looking towards her. She couldn't quite fathom the reason for the demons to make him look older than when she'd last seen him, but neither did she waste time pondering it. She just wanted to get this over with.

Finally, it looked up and saw her. It slowed, seemed to stagger without thought for a few more steps before stopping completely, still a good distance away.

She didn't move, didn't speak. She felt the mirage of a breeze flow through her hair. She only just kept her mouth from twitching as she felt the long blonde strands tickle her cheek. She missed her hair. She'd taken a great deal of pride in it when she'd been alive. Now, the demons always seemed to enjoy shaving it off.

They stared at each other, she and Dean's illusion, neither speaking or moving. It seemed to be struggling. If it were human, she would've guessed it was trying to determine if he were really seeing her standing there. Ironic, she thought, that the hallucination thought it was having a hallucination.

"Jo?"

And there it was. The voice. The voice that used to send a shiver down her spine. The voice that used to make her want to scream in frustration and smile in her damn infatuation. The voice that still threatened to inspire hope in her cold, dead heart…

It didn't seem bothered by her silence. It still looked lost, confused. She almost smiled then. Even when Dean Winchester _was_ lost or confused, he sure as hell didn't let anyone see it. If she'd been doubting the deception before, she certainly didn't now.

It couldn't take its eyes off her. She watched as it seemed to come back to life, suddenly pocketing the phone that had been in its hand as if it were a weapon he thought might scare her off.

It opened and closed its mouth, unsure what to say. "I, uh…" it tried. It shook its head, slowly stepped towards her. "Are you… really… real?"

Still, she didn't move.

It held out a beseeching hand and slowly, carefully, reached for her. She could feel the heat from its body. A part of her – a bigger part than she cared to admit – begged her to just give in, just this once. Reach for him, touch him, hold him…

Just when its fingertips brushed the fabric of her plaid sleeve, she whirled into motion.

Fingers wrapped around its outstretched wrist and yanked it down. She sidestepped, shoved it to the ground, grabbed the thing by the back of its neck.

"You're getting sloppy," she bragged, digging her beautiful, full set of fingernails into its skin. "If you're going to use Dean Winchester to torture me, at least put some effort into it. I feel insulted by this shit performance."

It was stupid to goad the demons; she knew that from past experience. But it was one of the only ways she could feel even the slightest edge of victory over them, and she needed that momentary sense of triumph to get through the oncoming days of torture.

She felt its muscles tense as it prepared to retaliate, but she tightened her grip on its arm and pulled it back, forcing the thing to still unless it wanted a dislocated shoulder.

"Seriously, the whole lost puppy look? Wrong Winchester," she spat. "You think you'd know that, given how many years you've wasted chasing after them."

It was silent for a few moments, their heaving breaths the only sound in the suffocating darkness. Another piece of evidence this wasn't really Dean Winchester – he never would've allowed himself to stay in such a vulnerable position for so long without lashing out.

"Where do you think you are, Jo?" it finally asked.

"You know where I am," she muttered.

"Tell me anyway."

"I'm in hell, you black-eyed bastard." Jo'd never quite figured out if the demons just conjured the illusion of Ellen and the rest of the gang being there or if the demons took on their appearance themselves and physically joined her in the nightmares, but it didn't really matter. As far as she was concerned, the hallucinations _were_ the demons, even just by association.

The thing swallowed, and its mouth worked to find the right words. "No, Jo. You're not." It tried to twist its head, to meet her gaze. She pressed down harder, forcing its cheek into the cold hard ground. "This is earth. This is- I think you- I think you're alive, Jo."

She laughed. It was such an empty sound it would've made her cry if she weren't already dead. "Your pick-up lines are getting old, demon. You've used that one on me before."

The problem with these dreams was that, while she felt and looked physically whole again, she wasn't. The shadows of the torture they'd put her through still haunted her mind and body, slowed her down, gave her only the illusion of control and humanity. So when the hallucination lunged back and grabbed her wrist, she didn't move fast enough. It snapped her forward. Her back hit the ground. She gasped for air, tried to scramble back to her feet, but the hallucination threw itself on top of her, straddled her waist.

She punched, bit, scratched, anything to get it off her, but the effort was draining. Even when she did manage to hit flesh, she could tell it was barely an annoyance for it. Finally, its long slender fingers latched onto her wrists and slammed them into the ground above her head.

"Jo!" it growled, bringing its face inches above hers. "Damn it, _stop_! Just stop!"

She did, not in obedience but in utter exhaustion. What was the point anyway? Struggling never got her anywhere; may as well save her minimal strength for the next session.

Its green eyes bore into hers, and she couldn't repress a shiver at just how beautiful they were, even knowing it was nothing but a fantasy. She could get lost in those eyes. She'd wanted to so many times before when she'd been alive and the man had been real. But she had never let herself. Now, a part of her wished she had. Maybe the temptation to fall for the lie wouldn't have been so overwhelmingly strong if she'd ever given herself the chance to feel the real thing.

"Your name is Joanna Beth Harvelle," it said. "You were born April 7, 1985, to Bill and Ellen. Your father died on a hunt with John Winchester. You carry his knife around everywhere you go because you want to be just like him. You and your mom worked at the Roadhouse until you started hunting together."

"Thanks for the history lesson," she spat, "but I think I know my own biography."

It continued as if she hadn't spoken. "You like REO Speedwagon. You knocked a guy's left molar out when he felt you up New Years Eve. You dated a hunter named Rick who disappeared without a trace; he was the first man you ever loved, but you told me once you were scared he was just using you. In 6th grade, you used to tell people _Jo_ was short for _Josephine_ after you read Little Women the first time. Your favorite movie is 'The Princess Bride', and you quote it so many damn times, I had to watch it just to keep up with what you were saying, and even though I told you it was the stupidest movie I'd ever seen, you knew I actually loved it because I slipped up and started quoting it, too."

It was nothing a demon couldn't have figured out by digging around in her memories, but it still shook her. The demons didn't usually use such information to try to convince her of their lies; they generally liked the more emotional approaches. She bucked her hips, trying to weaken its hold on her, but it only tightened its grip on her wrists.

"The first time we met, you punched me, almost broke my nose. I'd just lost my dad, but you managed to make me smile for a while. You were like my kid sister, and no matter how many times I tried to get rid of you, you kept popping back up like you knew I didn't really want you gone anyway. You had a crush on me, and even though I didn't feel the same, you still held on to it for years."

"Stop…" This was new. They'd never done this. In the nightmares, Dean always declared his love for her, apologized for being blind, begged her to come with him because he couldn't live without her. That's what made it so hard to keep the truth and the lie straight in her mind, because she wanted to hear those words of love and hope so badly after years of sadistic torture and agony. Eventually, she'd used such declarations to her advantage, knowing the real Dean would _never_ wear his heart on his sleeve so openly with her.

But this hallucination… it wasn't spewing words of love and devotion. It wasn't putting on a Prince Charming, knight in shining armor act. It was speaking as Dean – the real Dean – had when she'd still been alive.

"Do you remember dying, Jo?" it persisted.

"I said _stop_ -"

"We were gonna take down Lucifer. We were gonna stop the apocalypse. And then you jumped in front of a hellhound to save me. Do you remember that? We had to duck tape your stomach just to keep you breathing. And we kissed, and it was messy because we were both shaking and crying. And then you and Ellen blew yourselves up! Do you know what that felt like, walking away without a scratch knowing it was because you two were dead?"

"Shut up!"

"Is that the last thing you remember, Jo? The heat of the flames? Or is it when you were brought back to put me on trial? Is that it?"

"I remember the pain, you bastard!" she screeched. Her cheeks were wet. Why were they wet? It wasn't raining. "I remember hanging there begging my body to just die already, only to realize that I couldn't because I was already dead. I remember wondering what was taking you so long to come back and finish me off because I still had skin you hadn't stripped from my bones. I remember the woman telling me-"

What?

What woman?

"What woman?" the illusion asked, mirroring her own thoughts.

She blinked, shook her head. Her memories were scrambled. They had to be.

But she was remembering the woman just as vividly as she remembered the pain. She'd really been there. Jo was sure of it. How the woman had found her, Jo couldn't say. She wasn't even sure how long the woman had been standing there watching her because Jo had barely been able to keep her eyes open for more than a few seconds, still reeling from her last session. Jo remembered thinking how comfortable the woman seemed in the midst of the fire and decay that surrounded them. Her eyes had been steady, knowing, aloof. _Queen of the Underworld,_ Jo had thought. _My new torturer_ …

But the woman hadn't lain a hand on her. Instead, she'd spoken. And suddenly, the interaction became so clear Jo wondered how she could've forgotten it. The words were etched into her skull, unable to be ignored now that she'd inched the door open.

 _Joanna Beth?_

 _Yes._

 _Dean Winchester's Joanna Beth?_

 _No._

 _I can see why he likes you. When you see him, tell him Amara's debt is repaid_

"What did you say?"

She started, having forgotten where she was.

"Amara- Amara's debt is repaid," she repeated through trembling lips. "There was a woman, and she- she freed me. I think…"

Was it real? No, it couldn't be. This was just another trick, another sadistic lie. But it didn't… she could always tell when she'd been in a nightmare. After she'd been taken out, she could _always_ tell. The memory of an illusion always was hazy and grey, just like she remembered real dreams being. But this memory was vivid, bright, as if someone had purposefully stamped it in her brain to stand out above the others.

Suddenly, the weight on her stomach was gone. The illusion of Dean sat back in the grass, staring wide-eyed. Carefully, slowly, she pushed herself up on her elbows, then her hands. The grass felt soft, freshly cut beneath her unbroken fingers. She watched as the ends of her hair danced about freely, not from the cut of razors dragging across her scalp but from the soft breeze that blew through the night. She looked at her body, whole and unmaimed and fully clothed.

And then she looked up.

He – it – hadn't moved. It didn't even seem to be breathing as it sat and just looked at her. She looked back.

There were hints of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. And he looked harder than she remembered him being – colder, unforgiving, _lost_. As familiar as the face was, it was just as _un_ familiar to her. He'd never appeared this way before. He'd always been the same young Dean from her memories. Was that… could it be because she wasn't imagining it?

"Are you real?"

He – _it_ – blinked. "Yeah," it said. "I am. Are- are you?"

She heaved, a dry sob wracking her body. "If you're not real, I swear to God I will slaughter every last one of you for this."

It pushed itself up to its knees, hands up beseechingly. "I'm real," it said. "I'm Dean. I'm _your_ Dean."

They were close enough that she only had to stretch out a shaking, hesitant hand to touch him. He didn't move, his eyes never straying from her face. She couldn't meet his gaze, not yet. Instead, she watched as her trembling fingertips met the rough fabric of his plaid shirt. After two full breaths, she pushed on and flattened her hand against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart through the layers of cloth. She waited, counted. Only when her own heartbeat matched his did she look up. The rims of his eyes were red as if he were holding back a tide of emotion.

She didn't bother holding back the tears.

"Dean."

And then she was in his arms, and for the first time in _years_ , she felt the warmth of hope.

* * *

 **AN:** So, I have this headcannon involving Jo. When Dean and Sam made their trek through heaven way-back-when and ran into Ash, Ash told them he hadn't seen either Ellen or Jo. In my crazy, romantic Dean/Jo brain, I imagined a universe where the demons might have figured out Jo meant more to Dean than just a sister or friend or fellow hunter, and therefore they grabbed her before she could get to heaven so they could use her against Dean if necessary. It's a bit farfetched, I'll admit, but given that the show gave very little in terms of Dean/Jo material to work with, I shove in some romance and angst where I can!


	12. Broken Brotherhood

**Prompt** : Totally snatched this from tumblr, but I think you can handle it :D :D Jo arguing with Sam about his treatment of Dean, and everything falling apart when Sam calls Jo out on her feelings for Dean. TYSM!

 _ **AN:**_ _I have this taking place in Season 9 smack in the middle of the whole "We're not brothers anymore" debacle. I am totally NOT against Sam whatsoever, but this incident may have made me the teeny tiniest bit mad, and I think it came out a little here… ah well. Also, please be patient. Not my best. It's been a while since I've seen this season!_

 **Broken Brotherhood**

"Samuel Winchester, you open this door _now_ , or I swear to all things holy I will put so many bullets in you, you will be crapping lead for a decade!"

Her voice bounced off the motel's exterior concrete walls and out into the surrounding darkness. There was a click and a squeak as the next door over creaked open. Jo glared at the disgruntled inhabitant and shoved her FBI badge in the man's unshaved face.

"Police business," she snarled. "Stay in your room."

The man was smart. Jo barely had time to see all blood drain from his face before he slammed the door shut and locked it for good measure.

She whirled back on the door in question and banged on it again. " _Now_ , Sam! I know you're in there."

She was reaching for her gun to shoot the damn lock off when it swung open to reveal the stupid, _stupid_ son of a bitch she'd driven fifteen hours to hunt down. His hair was matted on one side, sticking up on the other. He had dark circles under his eyes, and judging by the obvious wincing at the dim street lights illuminating the motel parking lot, he was hungover. Good.

"Jo, wha-"

She shoved him aside and marched in, flipping the light switch as she passed. Sam closed the door and faced her, rubbing at his eyes.

"What are you doing here? Are you ok?"

"Am I ok?" she scoffed. "No, Sam, I'm not ok. See, I had just taken out a vamp nest in Denver and was thinking about maybe heading to the Carolinas for a well-deserved and, frankly, much needed break at the beach when I get a phone call. You want to take a wild guess as to who called me?"

Suddenly, he was awake. He stood taller, fists clenched at his sides. All signs of sleep were wiped from his expression. His face was carefully blank.

"If Dean sent you here-"

"Please," she spat. "We both know Dean's too proud. Besides, he was so drunk I doubt he'll even remember he called me. What the hell, Sam?"

The hunter chuckled darkly and turned away, grabbing a water bottle from the counter. "Right. I should've guessed. You hear his side of the story, and you automatically assume I'm the villain."

"You said he wasn't your brother anymore. What other side of the story could there possibly be?"

"You don't know what he did, Jo!" he yelled. "We had a chance to board up hell, board it up _for good_ , and he guilt-tripped me into choosing him instead. And then he went behind my back and _tricked_ me into-"

"Into being possessed by an angel. Yeah, I know." Dean had told her everything. He'd told her what he'd done to Sam – _for_ Sam, as he put it – and what Sam had said and that Sam had decided to take off for a couple days just to give each other some space. It'd taken a while to understand his drunken ramblings, but she'd figured out the gist of it before he'd fallen asleep mid-sentence. "Look, I'm not saying you should just forgive him and walk off into the sunset like nothing happened. You have every right to be pissed. Hell, I'm pissed, and it wasn't even me who was possessed! But he did it all for you, Sam. How do you not see that?"

He scoffed. "He didn't do it for me; he did it for himself. He can't stand the idea of being alone, and he's willing to put himself above everything else just to keep that from-"

She punched him so hard he was thrown back against the fridge.

Silence enveloped the room. Neither moved, staring at one another in shock. She'd hit him. It hadn't been the plan, but what he'd said had just made her _so mad_ …

"You of all people should know that's not true," she said finally, swallowing back the tremors of pure fury that threatened to overcome her.

Sam said nothing, just watched her for a moment before slowly shuffling into one of the dining chairs pushed up against the wall. He brought the water bottle to his mouth, took a few sips. His eyes never left her.

"I used to be like you," he finally said in a tone that was much too soft, too understanding. Jo didn't like it.

"What do you mean?"

"Dean was my idol. He could do no wrong." He smiled sadly, looked down at his hands. "He was my big brother, you know? He took care of me the way Dad should've. He was there for me the way Mom couldn't be. He made sure I had food and clothes and did my homework. He told me about girls even when I begged him not to, and he taught me how to kick a soccer ball when I told him I wanted to try out for the school team, even when he knew we wouldn't be there long enough for me to actually play in a game. He let me drive before I had a license and told Dad he was the one who hit the hydrant even though it was me. I wanted to be just like him. He was my hero."

"Because that's what family is. You take care of each other. You sacrifice for one another."

"That's my point, Jo! Him sacrificing for me would've been letting me save the world from hell. Him sacrificing for me would've been letting me die with my free will intact. But he didn't! He put what _he_ wanted first, not what _I_ wanted." He chuckled darkly. "But like I said, I used to be like you, so I know you don't see it. You probably never will."

She shook her head. "First of all, you don't know me, Sam. Maybe you think you do, and I certainly thought I knew you, but now… this conversation right here has proven we are complete strangers to one another. Second of all, every single thing Dean has ever done has been for _you_ , his baby brother. Damn it, Sam, he went to hell for you! Or did you forget that little detail?"

"He went to hell because the only other option was to be alone!" Sam countered. "He left _me_ alone instead."

"If he thought being alone was so damn horrible, why did he put you through it? Huh? I'll tell you why. Because it wasn't about being alone. Because he thought that you deserved more than what fate had given you. Because he would give you the whole damn world if you asked for it, and he wouldn't hesitate to throw his life away to do it."

"You can't see it, Jo," Sam said sadly. "A part of me hopes you never do. But he isn't the saint you think he is."

"I never said he was. Trust me, I know how far from holy your brother is."

He rubbed at his eyes, grimacing as if the whole conversation was giving him a blistering headache. Good. That was the least he deserved.

"I know we're family, Jo. And I know you're worried about me and Dean, even if the only way you know how to show it is to yell at us." He chuckled at that, and the sound was so broken Jo felt the ire in her begin to soften. She knew Sam was hurting. Despite his apparent claims otherwise, he loved Dean with all his heart, and this separation – no matter how temporary, no matter how self-inflicted – was draining him. "But you have to understand where I'm coming from. I can't forgive him this. I can't… I just… I _can't_. And I'm not leaving for forever; I just need a few days to myself, to wrap my head around who we are now."

She sighed, her anger momentarily receding and leaving her exhausted. She took the seat opposite him and took his hand in both of hers. "You're brothers, Sam. Maybe you don't see it now, maybe you won't be ready to accept it again for a really long time, but that's what you are, and that's what you'll always be to each other, no matter how much you deny it."

He shook his head. "Not anymore. I can't get passed what he did. I can't wrap my head around why he did it."

She swallowed back the words to defend Dean's actions, but she knew it would do no good. Sam wasn't in a place to hear it, and any attempt to make him listen would just cause more damage. Besides, the Winchesters were stubborn; she knew they would reconcile – she _hoped_ they would reconcile – but it had to be when they chose to do it, not a second sooner.

"You're going to go back to him? To Dean?" she asked gently.

"Yeah," he said. "I just needed time away, but I'm going back. We hunt best when we're together."

She nodded. "No more lectures from me, I promise. I'm done channeling my inner Ellen." Her heart ached a little as it always did when she thought of her mother, but she kept her focus on Sam. "But maybe you'd be open to a friendly warning?"

He chuckled. "Open or not, you're going to hit me with it anyway, so go ahead and lay it on me."

She smiled a little. Maybe he did know her after all.

"Dean's broken right now," she said. "Everything he's ever done, he's done it for you. No. Stop. Don't. Just let me finish. _He's thought_ he's done it for you. Whether you agree or not, that's what has always driven him. That being said, I know what he's going to do next. He's going to sulk, and he's going to passive aggressively pretend he's fine. And then he's going to try to prove to you that you two are still on the same page. You said you wanted to put hunting above your relationship as brothers, then he's going pretend to do the same. He's going to do something stupidly selfless and suicidal because he wants to close the distance between you two. He may not even realize that's why he's doing it, but it will be all for you. Again. I guess… what I'm trying to say is that… don't wait too long to reconcile. Don't give me that face. It's going to happen, whether you see it now or not. Just don't wait too long. Forgive him before it's too late."

Sam didn't understand. She could see it in that wide eyed, pitying look he gave her, that he thought she was naïve, that she didn't know what she was talking about.

"You know," he said suddenly, "this whole thing might be a good thing for you."

"You two fighting is good for me? How, exactly?"

"Dean and me might be done, but one good thing's come out of it – he called you."

"Yeah, which made me take a detour from my therapeutic trip to the beach. Thanks for the reminder."

He waved her comment aside. "Jo, _he called you_."

She stared at him, not understanding his point. "And?"

"And… maybe it's the right time for you and him to… you know."

Ah.

Now she got it.

"Right." She shook her head and pushed up from the table. "Listen, I'm gonna still try to hit the Carolinas for a couple days before my vacation is predictably cut short by some monster-related disaster."

"I know you still love him."

She sighed, turned to face him. "Sam, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I never-"

"Cut the crap, Jo," he said, not unkindly. "I know. In fact, I've known for years. And I also know that he loves you, too. I don't know what's held you two back for so long, but maybe now with the way things are changing… maybe you can finally end this will-they-won't-they rut you guys have been in for the last five years."

Now it was Jo's turn to feel the pressure of a headache building in the back of her head. What could she say? That Dean didn't love her? No, she was fairly certain that he did, or that he at least felt _something_ for her, something that could potentially turn into more. But she'd never pushed, and he'd never acted. Because the fact of the matter was…

"He loves you more, Sam."

That was it. That was what had held them back. Dean's whole world was his baby brother Sam. It would _always_ be Sam. And nothing would ever keep Dean from watching over him. Was it the fact that they'd lost their mother so young? Or that Dean had practically raised Sam on his own? Or that they lived such dangerous lives? Or that they'd watched each other die over and over again throughout the years? Maybe it was a combination of it all. Whatever it was, Jo knew nothing would change the fact that Sam came first, and no healthy, lasting, loving relationship could survive that.

Sam shook his head. "But I won't be-"

"He may not be your brother right now, Sam," Jo said, forcing a smile, "but you will always be his, come hell or high water. And I will never even try to come between that. I'll be there for him for now because he needs me to be, but when the time comes – and it will – you two will be inseparable again, and I'll go back to being that annoying little sister who comes and lectures the both of you at 2 AM about how stupid you two are being."

"You're wrong," he said. "This time, it's different."

"Of course it is." She paused at the door, hand on the knob. "Take care of yourself, Sam. And remember what I said – remember how much he loves you, and don't hold that grudge of yours for too much longer. You might come to regret it."

"He really does love you, Jo."

"Yeah. And I love you guys, too. Always will."

After all, they were her family. And maybe that was why she was so understanding of what Dean had done. Family always came first, even if it meant hurting yourself in the process.


	13. All In

**Prompt** **:** Them coming together finally? Please! Also, if you threw some angst in there, I'd just die!

 **All In**

Her body reacted as it always did when a nightmare shocked her back into the waking world – her muscles tensed to run, her fingers clenched the hilt of her father's knife, her eyes searched the room for the monster lurking in the corner. Even as she repeated to herself that _it was only a dream_ , it took several minutes for her heartrate to normalize and her hands to stop shaking. She sat up, curling against her bent legs, but the images wouldn't go away. She could still see Annette, eyes glassy as she lay there on the ground…

The hunt had been bad. Very bad. It'd been a shapeshifter, a stealthy one, a _playful_ one. It had seen them – her and the Winchesters – as worthy opponents and the hunt as a game of chess. It had taken them days to figure out the pattern of its kills, which had only increased once the creature had realized they were hunting it. The shifter had started dropping bodies like clues in a scavenger hunt.

But the worst part hadn't been the bodies. No, the worst had been that they'd gotten familiar with a couple of local cops. Evan and Annette, partners who refused to let the hunters do their jobs without them.

"These are our people," Evan had argued, shouting over Dean's generic comments that the cops would be better off leaving it to them. "And protecting them is our job."

He was a good man. And Annette… Jo'd liked Annette, seen a lot of herself in the woman, and she'd began to wonder just how similar she might've been to Annette had she never known about monsters.

But now Annette was dead. The shifter had grabbed her, tried to use her as a shield against the hunters in the final showdown. And when if had realized it'd lost its little game, it'd ripped her throat out. No mercy. No hesitation. Annette was just… gone.

Jo kicked off the sheets that had somehow wrapped themselves around her clammy legs and marched out of her room with a cursory glance at the clock on her bedside table. Four in the morning. There was no guarantee she would be the only one up, given that she, Dean, and Sam all had their fair share of bad nights, and a part of her hoped someone else might be roaming the halls just to have some sort of distraction. Either way, she couldn't stay in her room. Besides, they each had their routines for battling the nightmares: Sam would go for a run at ungodly hours, Dean would drink and look for another hunt, and Jo'd make some coffee and get back to electronically documenting all the files, reports, and experiments that seemed to be stashed in the bunker's every nook and cranny. It was a self-assigned project that she doubted she would ever finish, but it kept her hands and her mind busy.

She'd been living in the bunker for six months now. It hadn't been planned, but somehow she'd gone from occasional guest to regular tenant to permanent resident without a single one of them noticing the transition until the deed was done.

"There's plenty of room anyway," Sam had shrugged when she'd abruptly commented on it one day. "It's actually kind of nice having another room taken, you know? Makes the place feel more lived in instead of a ghost town."

She'd talked to Dean about it, too, making sure he was ok with her more permanent presence there. She was… they were… what were they? They flirted, and they kissed. He wrapped his arms around her whenever they were sitting on the couch, she always reached for him when he was getting too tense. Neither one of them had pursued any relationship outside of each other. But nothing had been said – no labels were given, no conversations had, no promises made.

And so she'd brought up her staying there, half afraid Dean's commitment-phobic side would awkwardly tell her she could stay for a few days but not forever. But he'd just shrugged in his casual _Dean_ way and said, "Like hell I'm going to complain if one of my only friends still alive decides to stay for a while."

 _Friends_. That had stung.

But she'd stayed. She hadn't really felt at home since losing her mother, despite the multitude of apartments she'd rented, and the bunker wasn't home just yet. But it could be. One day. Hunting with Sam and Dean was like taking a breath of fresh air. The job was still the job, hunting still hunting, and she didn't regret choosing this life, but the burden that came with it all was easier to bear when she could see she wasn't the only one struggling with it. They never talked about it, of course; that wasn't their way. But the brothers' presence was more than enough to keep her grounded in a way she hadn't been in a long, _long_ time.

"Hey."

She blamed the remaining haze from the nightmare for the fact that she'd almost passed Dean by as he lounged at his usual place in the library.

"Shit. Hey. Sorry. Didn't see you there."

He watched passively as she shuffled forward and fell into the chair next to him. "Annette?" he asked.

She rubbed at her eyes and nodded. He needed no other explanation. "You?"

His gaze dropped to the bottle in hand. He pealed at the beer label, which was so tattered that Jo suspected he'd been at it for a while. "Evan."

It wasn't the answer she was expecting. Dean usually shouldered the lives he lost, while Sam worried about the ones still alive but scarred by what they'd seen. The dichotomy was one of the reasons they worked so well together.

"You think he's going to be ok?" she asked.

"Nope."

He took a swig of beer. It was only then Jo noticed the number of bottles littering the table. She also noted he was wearing the same clothes he'd had on when she'd gone to bed. In fact, she'd said good night just as he'd plopped himself down in that very chair…

"Want something to eat?" she offered, pushing herself to her feet. "I'm feeling like pancakes."

"You know he wanted to marry her?"

Jo paused then lowered herself back down. "Evan wanted to marry Annette? I didn't think they were together like that."

She wished she still didn't know. That made the whole damn thing worse.

He shrugged. "They weren't together. He wanted to be, though." Dean threw his head back and finished the rest of the beer before sliding it away from him. "That second night when we went on stakeout, he started telling me about how they'd known each other since they were kids. She was the girl next door; he was the nerd too out of her league to ask her out. Then they'd gone to the academy and come back as partners. He always thought there was something there on her end, too, but he never pushed. Always figured when they got settled into the job they could try things out." He furrowed his brow. "I don't even know why he told me any of that."

 _Oh, Evan_ … Suddenly, Jo itched for a beer of her own.

"Maybe… maybe he'd been holding it in for so long," she said eventually, "and you were just some stranger he thought he could vent to and never see again."

"Yeah? Well, I wish he'd kept his mouth shut."

She selfishly wished Dean had kept his mouth shut, too. Dreaming about Annette's corpse staring up at her and asking to be saved was bad enough, but at least Annette's suffering was over. Evan's, now… he'd be living with the _what ifs_ for the rest of his life.

"I'm not him, Jo."

She frowned, not exactly following. "What do you mean?"

Dean was sitting up now, leaning forward on his knees and looking at her with a look so broken and lost she would've cried if the nightmare and this conversation hadn't left her so drained.

"I'm not Evan," he said. "I refuse to _be_ Evan. He sat there for years, and he knew what he felt, and he didn't do a damn thing about it. And, yeah, maybe Annette would've been killed by that shifting son of a bitch anyway, but at least he would've known. At least he wouldn't be left sitting there empty with memories and possibilities going around and around and around in his head like a living hell."

"Dean, I don't–"

"I'm all in." He shifted forward. His legs straddled hers, and his hands brushed against her knees. "This thing that we've got going on here, Jo, I am all in."

"What are you talking about? Dean, I don't… You're…" She searched his gaze, confused as hell. He wasn't making any sense, and she doubted she could blame her confusion on the remaining fog of sleep.

Then she saw the empty beer bottles on the table, and it clicked.

"You're drunk," she sighed.

He grimaced, waved halfheartedly at the bottles beside him. "Sam was here a half hour ago. Most of them are his. Just listen to me, Jo. Please. These last few months… I don't what we are or what we've been doing, but never in my entire life have I been happier. And that might not sound like it means much because I've had a really shitty life, but I mean it. I get up, and I don't reach for the alcohol first thing. I don't think about everyone I've lost or all the shit I've done. I'd do it all again. I don't wish for things to be different because things being different would mean you wouldn't be here. It would mean you wouldn't be a hunter. It would mean I would've never met you. It would mean you might've died alongside Ellen. So I'm glad for all the crap I've been given if it brought you here to me. You know I'm not good at these things, and I know we haven't talked about what we're doing here, but I want you to know – I _need_ you to know – that this is it. _You_ are it for me, Jo. It's not going to be romantic, and I'll probably give you more reasons to leave than to stay because I'm too broken to function right, but I am telling you now that I- I love you, Jo. I love you, and if you let me, I'm going to ask you to marry me someday."

He loved her. He loved her?

He was going to ask her… someday.

There was no hesitation in his gaze. There was desperation, resolution, and a fierce storm of something she couldn't admit even now, but there wasn't an ounce of doubt.

"Damn it, Jo. Say something."

Her lips crashed onto his. It wasn't sweet; it wasn't romantic. It was a claim. It was desire and love and hope and fear all twisted together. His lips parted. She slanted her mouth over his. His arms reached up, pulled her into his lap, wrapped themselves around her waist. Her hand tangled itself in his hair and pulled him closer, _closer_. She could feel his fingers digging into her waist, and she scratched at his back in return, melding every inch of herself into him.

When they finally broke apart, she barely moved, leaving her forehead to rest against his. His gasping breath mingled with hers, and somehow she knew his eyes were still closed, too.

"I have two things to say to you," she eventually gasped. She opened her eyes and leaned back just enough to meet his gaze, his green eyes so clouded with longing she almost forgot what she wanted to say. "Number one – if you are saying this because you are drunk or because you think I am some sort of security blanket you can keep until you outgrow me, I swear I will kill you dead." She mashed her lips against his, immediately silencing his protests. "Number two – I have waited for you for too damn long, Dean Winchester. You do what you have to do, and you make sure this is what you want before you go asking me things you can't take back, but remember this – I'm all in, too. I am all in, and I will be for as long as you'll have me."

His eyes searched hers. "Are you sure? I'm not perfect, and I'm not an easy person to-"

"Just shut up and kiss me, Winchester."

He refused to be Evan, and she refused to be Annette. Who cared what her life would've been like if she'd never become a hunter? Dean was right; everything they'd suffered, all the shit they'd survived, the people they'd become… it had brought them to that very moment, to that kiss right there. And she wouldn't have given it up for anything in the world.

She was all in.


End file.
